Devil's Trill
by PaperInkFlowers
Summary: Ressler deals with his choices. And falls for Prescott along the way.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: Ressler deals with his choices. And falls for Prescott along the way.

general, canon divergence

 **Warnings:** Choosing not to warn for anything.

Notes: Attempted the Blacklist. Again. Started shipping Ressler and Prescott. Still doesn't stick. This show slides off like Teflon. Maybe it's too hopeless for me? So don't know how far this fic will go. I'm just playing with these two. And maybe figure out why this show doesn't do it for me when I feel like it should. (This actually bugs me…) Sorry if there's canonicity errors, kinda winging it.

(Not meant to get in the way of the show. Just shipping and figuring things out.)

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

 _ **~Chapter One~**_

Donald Ressler stood up, stretching out his shoulders and neck, finished wiping down the black car Prescott demanded he relocate. He and Prescott had carefully worked removing a panel from a wall in the empty garage the car was sitting in, the silence only interrupted when the fixer gave Ressler instructions, supervising his motions to ensure Ressler didn't leave any incriminating evidence.

The revulsion of his participation had nearly vanished. By the time they were done Ressler wasn't struggling with his new status as a dirty fed.

As a murderer.

Accepted that he's crossed the line.

What he was struggling with was a way to get rid of Prescott as the fixer further entangled him as another insurance policy.

"We're not done yet. Come on," Prescott said, leading him away.

"What about the body?" Ressler asked, turning to look at the car they were leaving behind.

"What body?" Prescott replied, his tone flippant.

The response grated. Ressler hated that tone. Hating that he was compromised. But there wasn't anything that could be done for him. It was his fault and he wasn't going to drag his team down with him.

And he refused to go to jail for accidentally murdering an actual murderer. A charge he'd be acquitted from if his _mistake_ hadn't been the National Security Advisor.

His teammates would help. He knew that.

But he wasn't going to give the next corrupt official something to hold over them. This circle of blackmail was going to end with him.

The memory of anger pooling as he drove to Hitchen's home to retrieved his badge returned as he followed Prescott. It had kept replaying in his head— if she hadn't been corrupt, if she had been doing her job, she would have saved the task force out of duty. Exploding in disgust when Hitchen grabbed him. The emotional loss of control finally damning him.

And damning him once more when he sought out Prescott again in rage.

The fixer headed towards the driver side and Ressler's fatalistic mood was broken by the annoyance that Prescott intended to drive his car.

Ressler clenched his teeth from saying anything. He had time to reflect. To realize he's fallen back into old responses when it came to criminals. He shoved a hand into his pocket, fist clenching the tie that Prescott ordered him to take off while they worked.

The resentment switched to curiosity as the smell of earth and flowers hit his nose. He turned, seeing the potted rose bushes sitting in the back.

"Why are there roses in my car?" Five of them. The large red buds partially blooming on thorny green branches, peeking up behind the back headrests. The black plastic pots rested on a gray tarp and he's glad he at least won't have to clean the back.

"We're going to plant them."

Curiosity got him, not even annoyed at the non-answer. "Where are we going?"

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

The large house stood empty, waiting for the new owners to move in. The back porch's sliding glass doors have been left open. Airing out the dried pale teal walls wrapped with white moulding still giving off the smell of paint and sawdust.

The large yard was going to be a serene scene once the planted shrubbery started growing into their spaces, Ressler thought, waiting as Prescott finished marking five spots in the prepared flower bed with his shovel after checking no one was squatting inside.

"Mind telling me what we're doing?" Ressler walked over, passing freshly placed irises, keeping close to the white walls, despite the house and surrounding walls blocked all lines of sight to the area they were in. He eyed the empty flower bed suspiciously, wondering if a body laid underneath.

"Planting. Start digging."

Taking a slow deep breath, Ressler took off his suit jacket, tossing it on the dark stone ground, the night's chill hitting him. Prescott tossed him a pair of gray leather gloves.

"Don't worry. I'm not planning on killing and burying your body here," Prescott said when the agent took the shovel from him.

"Didn't even cross my mind," Ressler deadpanned.

"You don't try anything either."

Ressler's mouth twisted and Prescott smiled coldly at him in response. How cute. The dirty fed was offended at the suggestion of premeditated murder.

Turning his back on Agent Ressler, Prescott neatly set his own jacket down, ignoring the gaze he could feel on him.

He almost stopped short at seeing the agent's expression when he turned back.

"What?" Prescott asked as he walked back up.

Ressler looked at the fixer's jacket lying flat on the large navy stone slates and back at Prescott, brow furrowing. His eyes flickered up and down Prescott's form again just to be sure.

"You're not armed," Ressler said in disbelief, his own service weapon a comforting weight on his hip.

"Surprised? Must be easy for you to kill people if you're working with someone like Reddington." Prescott smirked at him and Ressler's temper flared again at the contempt thrown his way.

"Really? Taking a high ground?" It was the truth and Ressler hated that this lowlife was getting a rise out of him. "I can't see it being a problem for you either. You worked for Hitchen," he growled back.

Prescott smiled tightly, sharp and cold. "At least I can control myself and not accidentally kill someone. I would have even caught her in time."

Ressler's eyes widened. He didn't tell Prescott _anything._

"How do you know what happened?!"

"I _can_ read crime scenes, you know," Prescott snapped, indignant. How does someone working for Reddington keep underestimating him?

"You think I didn't track your movements after taking Reddington to one of my caches? Hitchen's trip to the courthouse? Identify her victim before I stored her? I know what she's like. Pretty sure she tried to coerce you to do something," Prescott said, rubbing the fact in as viciously as possible. Before Agent Ressler, who's looking more stunned at the revelation by the seconds, did something stupid that he'd have to deal with.

"I told you. I'm good at what I do. Get that through your head. Now. Dig."

Ressler's anger evaporated, the shovel in his hands forgotten. "You know what she's like …. " Ressler said hollowly, the irony that Prescott was the only one who could help hit him once more. "You're a fixer. Can you prove Hitchen killed Reven Wright? Can you get me acquitted?"

"Now why would I do that?" The request had Prescott taken aback. The plea to bring justice for Hitchen's victim surprising him even more.

"She tried to force me to be her lackey. Kinda like what you're doing."

"You did it first. And twice. You don't get to complain," Prescott scoffed at him.

Ressler stood in silence for a moment. "So you're mad," he quietly said, watching Prescott's reaction of disdain sweep over his face. "How long are you going to keep doing this?"

"Well, I was going to let it go. Seeing you're working with Raymond Reddington, of all people. But then I discovered you were a dirty fed."

"What?!" Ressler choked, stunned voice coming out hoarse and cracked. It was the truth though—once he chosen to cover up Hitchen's death. But it still hurt to be finally called that and he felt pinned under Prescott's sharp eyes.

Prescott felt a half sneer forming as his patience started to wane. Goddamn did this fed pissed him off. These types always did. Inept crooked cops who thought they were better than the criminals they hunted. But still very willing to hire him. He's got it handled on setting up these problematic clients into eliminating themselves. A simple matter to extract himself if it weren't for the fact that _Raymond Reddington_ was involved.

Thinking about the crime lord was pissing him off again.

"Donald Ressler, the point man for the task force dedicated to bringing Raymond Reddington to justice. Actually his lackey. And to think, I once thought you were a decent, honest agent. Wow, was I wrong."

Ressler was speechless and stood there staring at Prescott.

"How did you keep anyone from discovering you were his mole?" And Prescott only had his bumbling asset who didn't know what he was doing to take his anger out on.

Whom he originally, vastly overestimated.

"Or was everyone else just as incompetent?"

That snapped Ressler out of it.

"What?!"

"You're a crooked cop who's become a liability. Eventually he's going to kill you." The flinched hurt following the bewilderment just irritated him more. So Ressler was an idolizing follower. Did this fool not know what he's gotten himself into?

"Is admiring loyalty all you have to offer? You do know that Reddington executes anyone who betrays him, right? I'm pretty sure going behind his back to call me is a breach of trust."

"Wha—I'm not—" Ressler clamped his mouth shut, catching the inside of his cheek. Off balanced by the reappearance of Prescott's shearing confidence that once again caught him by surprise.

Locking himself down as the fixer's inaccurate accusations hit too close for comfort.

Ressler actually held himself well under the scrutiny, making Prescott feel better. Yet studying how the agent was refusing to speak to defend himself… there was something Prescott wasn't getting. The defensiveness wasn't about Ressler's own corruption being exposed.

"Oh, I see," Prescott said calmly, hiding the tightening fury that was building. "You're not a mole. Reddington works with the feds."

"The hell gives you that idea," Ressler snapped, aware he was losing his temper again as the burn of failure in his chest spread. Confusion mixed with disgust at himself for the lack of emotional control.

Prescott was right.

He was a liability.

Prescott sneered in contempt. "Wow. The great Raymond Reddington is a snitch. So he uses the feds to control his competition and maintain his empire."

"Hey, screw you!" Protectiveness swelled and Ressler's temper finally broke loose at the condescension. Hearing the truth from Gale was one thing, but this scumbag didn't get to pass judgment on them.

"His rivals thinned these past few years. I'd say the feds traded your task force for his intel. And the rumors of Reddington's fall from power? Something did happen. That's why he went after Hitchen." Prescott shut down his rage, putting it away for later, and changed plans. Reddington working with the feds was a different matter.

"You know what," Ressler threw his shovel down violently, "maybe I'll just turn myself in after all. At least I'll take you down with me."

"You sure about that?" Prescott said dryly, completely unruffled by the threat. "I'd get a deal. Probably the same immunity as Reddington."

An exaggerated bluff, of course. He doesn't have Reddington's level of information; the man was a whole other league. "I might even get to work with your team." Prescott grimaced at the thought. "If they're like you, I'll be sure to do something about them and get new agents," he mocked.

At that Ressler strode up to him, getting in his face. "Don't you dare think about going after my team," he snarled, showing teeth, while Prescott remained steady and unmoved at the unexpected fierce protectiveness.

"Reddington must be really desperate to keep you around." Prescott's mind raced. So loyalty to his team wasn't the same as his loyalty to Reddington. The protective display reflected the Donald Ressler he heard about.

"Or _maybe_ it's because he can work around you." A good agent, but too short-sighted to keep up with the Concierge of Crime.

And why would Reddington even bother wrangling this hothead? There wasn't evidence of volatility from any reports.

"Or is he keeping you because of someone else?" Prescott kept pressing Ressler, the man wasn't backing down, but he saw the verbal hits expose doubts and insecurity.

"The Donald Ressler I heard of wouldn't stand working with a criminal of Reddington's caliber. I've seen your photo before. Didn't recognize you."

Ressler's expression closed off and Prescott recognized he overdid it. The widening wounds in Ressler's ego vanished, sealed away by a self-assurance backed by professional competence that Prescott saw when he first met Frank Sturgeon.

This was the one he saw that day in the woods. Approaching him with dangerous restrained loathing.

"Are you done?" Ressler asked, his voice aloof and empty.

Prescott bared his teeth at him in a grin.

"For now." Prescott stepped away, pulling on thick garden gloves and grabbed a pot. "Start digging. It's getting late."

Ressler ignored him, watching Prescott tip a pot onto its side. "So, what? Gonna keep jerking me around?"

"Consider it revenge for ending my career," Prescott said, as he gently worked the rose bush out.

"What?" Ressler blinked, his stony face breaking. Inwardly, he was embarrassed how quickly he lost his composure; Prescott catching him off guard again.

Prescott tilted his head to look at him, shook his head and sighed.

"I have a reputation to uphold. I'm done. Thanks to you two." Prescott loved his job, but he's been in the underworld long enough to recognize it was finally his time. Knew once he led Reddington and his bodyguard to the woods he had to pull up the stakes and get out. Hitchen's death by Ressler's hand only confirmed it.

"I had a good run. So. You," Prescott declared, jabbing a finger in the other man's direction, "are helping me close up shop."

"Wait. Because you violated your own rules you're quitting?" Ressler heard the strain in his own voice; the irony of it all.

Prescott stood up, hands at ease away from his sides, slightly flexing them in annoyance.

"I'm a professional. Keeping secrets and managing conflicts of interests are part of the package. Clearly, I can't do that anymore. Not when the Concierge of Crime is threatening to throw my name around each time he wants something."

Ressler locked eyes with the fixer, seeing— actually seeing— Henry Prescott for the first time. This man he dismissed as another unimportant scum after seeing him before Reddington and stared down by Dembe. Despising Prescott on sight for working for Hitchen.

Hating Prescott for making him feel ashamed for putting the task force at risk.

Pushing away thoughts he didn't want to examine, Ressler quashed the slow rise of belligerence at being shown up by Prescott.

"Is that what I'm doing?" Ressler asked instead, recalling the times he felt out done by Reddington in the beginning years together, troubled that the crime lord made a better cop. Before he begrudgingly came to respect the man.

"Consider yourself my retirement insurance." Prescott waved a gloved hand at him. "Dig," Prescott ordered, waiting with the uprooted rose at his feet.

"Why would you want me doing this if you're quitting?" Ressler asked, not budged by Prescott's impatience. "Making me complicit means I'm a liability."

"Retirement. Insurance," Prescott repeated. "Better follow instructions and not screw up. Like you keep doing," Prescott quickly added, taking a swipe at Ressler before he demanded an elaboration, catching the slight twitch of Ressler unconsciously curling into himself.

Ressler straightened. That stung. And the realization of it bothered Ressler more than the insult itself. Criminals never could phase him with verbal attacks. Too beneath him. Not even Reddington's own flair of insults got to him.

But now… Ressler took a deep breath, slowly letting it out, and picked up the shovel again, not taking his eyes off Prescott.

"Don't like it when someone questions your competence, huh? Really annoying, right?" Prescott said snidely. "Just think, if you actually had some respect for me none of this would have happened."

Drained. That's what Ressler was feeling. Drained and disappointed and trapped by the feeling that he's a fraud because now he couldn't deny he was _one of them_. Because he did screw up and Prescott kept voicing the doubts and self-flagellations still lurking under his decision to accept what he's done.

Ressler shut his eyes and sighed.

"I'm sorry I questioned your skills. I'm sorry Reddington threatened you. I'm sorry I threatened you. Please stop blackmailing me."

He hadn't meant to say the last part out loud, but what the hell.

"Okay."

Ressler jerked, startled. He opened his eyes at Prescott still standing before him. He misheard that, right?

"Do the feds have a file on me?"

Ressler blinked at the abrupt question, still in shock, and reflexively shook his head before he could stop himself.

"Okay," Prescott repeated blandly. He's willing to accept the apology. "As long as you keep Reddington and the feds away from me? We're done." He _really_ didn't want anything to do with Reddington.

Ressler just stood there, dazed, the world tilting.

"Would you hurry up and dig?" Prescott said, finally exasperated.

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

Finally. It's almost morning, but now he can get some rest. After his trip with Agent Ressler he still had other tasks to attend to. Putting in motion the closing of operations and collecting final balances. Reevaluating safeguards and clients, soon to be ex-clients.

Prescott flipped open the burner phone passed to him. The communication delivery dedicated to only one person.

He scrolled through the contact lists, mentally decoding the message, working his jaw when he saw the meeting date was also another message.

 _Will find you._

Hopefully soon.

He needed better intel and this rare occurrence of Matias Solomon reaching out was fortuitous, even if he was calling on a debt. He's heard the merc had been hired to deal with Reddington multiple times recently.

Prescott sighed and trudged upstairs, the wooden floorboards creaking. An oversight on his part when he took Ressler's call. Quickly putting together what Reddington had in mind, he had assumed in his haste to play along. And now Ressler was a potential problem he couldn't deal with.

Later, after some sleep, he's retrieving better intel on Agent Ressler. The old profile and current dossier weren't enough. The fact that he again misjudged and revised his opinion of Ressler set off misgivings. He's rarely wrong about people—especially someone so easy to read— and he wanted to know why.

Just in case. Because he didn't trust Ressler at all.

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~


	2. Chapter 2

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

 _ **~Chapter Two~**_

It's been two days since Prescott let him go and Ressler still can't believe that happened. He's still expecting to hear from him every time his phone rang and he couldn't bring himself to delete the contact number.

The one Prescott gave him.

His finger would hover over the alias he assigned to Prescott, only to decide against the deletion.

The fact that Prescott was quitting wouldn't get out of his head.

Destabilizing his acceptance to cover up his crime. If lying was the best way to protect his team from another criminal official. Worried that confessing to the murder of the National Security Advisor would finally dismantle their task force after surviving Mr. Kaplan's vendetta.

Or was he only lying to himself.

The doubts emerged to plagued him once more as he read the updated crime reports and took a moment to gather himself. Ressler mentally berating himself back to concentration before Aram or Samar noticed.

"Good afternoon, what a lovely day we're having!"

Ressler looked up from where they were researching the intel he requested from other departments. Armed with the knowledge of what Kaplan did Ressler thought they could observe the changes in criminal activities that Reddington's absence was causing.

"Mr. Reddington," Aram greeted, agreeing that it was a nice day. Nothing but boring reports and data collection.

Samar nodded as he walked up to the table. "What brings you in today?"

"Alas, not another blacklister. But something that needs to be taken care of, nonetheless."

"Yeah?" Ressler asked, humoring Reddington's overdramatic announcement.

"Yes." Reddington smiled at the agent, seeing that his air of playful casualness still raised Donald's guard. The vigilance a wasted expenditure of energy and he's waiting for the day Donald would stop doing that. "Donald, I hope you haven't had lunch already?"

"I was actually about to leave," Ressler replied, wondering what Red was up to now.

"Good. Allow me to take you out to lunch," Reddington said cheerfully. "Dembe is already waiting for us in the car."

Ressler looked at him quizzically. Samar looking more amused than he and Aram.

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

"Dembe."

"Ressler."

"So what are we doing?" Ressler asked once they got settled in the backseat.

"Having lunch at the Laguna, seeing to a loose end," Reddington replied as Dembe started the car. "The proprietor, Bella Marina, sole owner of the hotel complex after her older sister and brother-in-law met an unfortunate accident skinny dipping in the restaurant's interior aquarium."

"I've heard of the place. The husband tried to wrestle their giant amazonian fish. Had a weak heart that went into extreme arrhythmia when it hit him in the chest. The wife hit her head trying to save him." Ressler wondered if they were really going to eat there. The Laguna belonged more in Vegas and was far, far too expensive for his wallet.

"And Bella Marina is the last member of the family. Her parents having passed away of old age; inheriting everything. Including the services of one Henry Prescott."

"Prescott?" The surprise slipped through, and Ressler hoped Reddington wouldn't think it out of ordinary. The name sent a stab of panic, along with the realization that Reddington always had a lead on Prescott.

Keep it together, Ressler thought. This was Reddington he was lying to.

"You didn't call me Sturgeon by accident." Ressler kept his voice steady, remembering Prescott wanted Reddington to stay away from him. "It was a threat. Why didn't we just go there in the first place?"

"Time was of an essence," Reddington explained. "An unreliable location to net Prescott. Bella is more of a debtor, and with no means to reach him except when he chooses to visit the establishment. If he's not there, she'll be able to pass along our request for a meeting."

"And why are we looking for him again?" Ressler asked, bothered by the thought that agreeing to Prescott's terms counted as spying.

"Because he killed Laurel Hitchen and I'd like to know if he's plotting against us or if we could arrive to an amicable working agreement."

"Him?" Ressler asked, blindsided at Reddington's declaration. "Why would he do that?"

"Isn't it obvious, Donald? She would have planned a retaliation for betraying her."

Reddington sighed.

"I had hoped to construct a deal and have his skills and resources available in exchange for protection. It's another reason why I called you to meet him. Acting as an unknown variable to keep him in check until the time came to reveal your FBI status. To keep him from aligning with Laurel and allowing us to hold Prescott over her head. Negating the grievance he'd have against us. Her death, however, eliminates that leverage."

"Wait. That's why you gave me his number," Ressler said, his voice rising with incredulity to what Reddington was saying. "You wanted me to be his handler?!"

"Exactly."

Ressler let that admittance stew for a moment. His resentment of Reddington's machinations rising again. Annoyed that his ire had no effect on Reddington as per usual. Tempted by the impulse to let Reddington know that his plan backfired.

"But her death was an accident," Ressler said, telling himself to get over it. He can't afford it right now and it was no longer fair.

"I sincerely doubt that," Reddington said, impressed with Prescott's handiwork.

"Wouldn't he hide the body?" Ressler pointed out. Something he'd actually wondered himself.

"And trigger another search? Inviting another dogged inspector like yourself?" Reddington smiled, thinking of Donald's own determination on quests to bring down criminals. "No, an accident would be more efficient. No one will look."

"So he got to her before she did?"

"I imagine a confrontation of sorts occurred. She wouldn't be able to get rid of him easily. He knows where her bodies are buried," Reddington trailed off wistfully.

The car filled with mournful silence and Ressler felt like an awkward intruder at the reminder of Mr. Kaplan. Out of place among people who executed a deeply close friend for a betrayal he didn't quite understand.

Reminding him that he was unsure where he stood with Reddington.

And how he used his connection to Reddington to get Prescott to do what he wanted.

Minutes trickled by before Ressler broke the silence.

"Maybe it really was an accident. She was furious and yelling at me when I left," Ressler said softly, edging the lie spun from truth carefully forward.

Reddington turned towards him, eyebrows raised. "Well that's different. You two managed to remain professional through all the smugness. What did you say to Hitchen to put her in that mood?"

Ressler eyes flicked downwards.

Reddington waited.

"She tried to force me to acknowledge she's in charge; to do what she wanted," Ressler finally said. "Told her 'no.' Snatched my badge out of her hand and walked out."

"Ah, yes, that'll do it."

"Are we going to blackmail him with Hitchen's death this time?" Ressler asked, getting away from the memory of his physical reaction that led to her death. He dreaded the oncoming meeting. And he didn't know whether he was going to correct Reddington's misconception or not.

"Merely testing the waters. We're going to see if an arrangement can be made. If he puts together why Laurel Hitchen stormed the courtroom it won't be long before he identifies you. Your former colleague, Julian Gale, made quite a ruckus. So I rather offer him a job first, and if necessary, be the one to reveal who you are, before he seeks out my enemies."

Ressler went quiet.

Questions ran through his mind. The desire to know what Reddington thought Prescott would have done if he had identify him. How did he expect Prescott to react to the revelation he was FBI. The hypotheticals for answers he already had. Wanting to test Reddington's skills.

An urge to ask what were the plans to deal with Prescott now. What did Reddington plan to negotiate with. What would they do if Prescott wanted revenge. What else did he know about the man.

Answers he wanted to hear, to justify the creeping willingness to let Prescott take the fall.

"He did me a favor."

A truth instead.

"Yes. I know you hated her." Reddington looked out the car window, not wanting Donald to pick up on his pensiveness. Donald would be the one bearing the consequences if this couldn't be resolved peacefully.

They remained silent for the rest of the drive. Ressler wrestling with the idea of telling Reddington the truth. Tell him now, because there's no way he can conceal his reaction to Prescott without Reddington noticing. Or to wait for the inevitable when they met Prescott again. Let Reddington handle the situation while he observed, before it all came crashing down.

He still hasn't decided when they disembarked, quietly following Reddington to a back alley. Walking a step behind, Ressler's eyes roving for danger, wondering why Dembe was staying in the car.

They entered from the back door, passing crates of vegetables waiting to be unpacked. The workers glancing up as they passed before returning to their tasks. Reddington walked up to a waitress, asking for a private room, Ressler listening to him ask for the Singing Mermaid hors d' oeuvres followed with Sea Unicorns. Surprised when Reddington handed her three Benjamins. Whoever Bella Marina was, Reddington didn't think harshly of her.

They're seated in an isolated room at a table for five, white plates and silver utensils still bundled in their monogrammed napkins, not waiting long when a hot woman strode in. Bella had curves and Ressler kept his gaze from lingering on her chest. She carried herself with an underlying aura that experience in his career taught him that Bella had an chronic anxiety affliction. One of the men following her held three extremely large takeout platters stacked in a white plastic bag. The other had his hands clasped behind him.

"You're looking for Mr. Prescott," the dark blonde woman immediately started. "He quit."

"Quit?" Reddington exclaimed, disbelieving what that meant.

The surprise Ressler was feeling wasn't fake. A part of him hadn't believed Prescott.

"He's done. Gone. He quit," Bella said, relief and nervousness in her eyes.

She's scared of us, Ressler realized. Freed from Prescott and now afraid they were taking his place.

"I know who you are. He showed me your wanted poster," Bella spoke quickly. "He thought you might be coming here. He told me to tell you that he's retired and to leave him alone."

She took a breath and barreled on. "I never had a way to contact him. And he's never returning here. Cleared out. I packed up your order. Please don't come back."

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

"Unbelievable!"

Dembe looked at them questioningly from the rear view mirror. "What happened?"

"He quit! Out of the game!"

At that Dembe raised an eyebrow. The news too good to be true. He didn't like Raymond's plan. After meeting Prescott … he liked it even less.

"So what now?" Ressler asked, hoping this was the end of things, setting the chilled packages on the carseat. Thanking the universe the meeting didn't happen.

"Now I verify with other sources." Though Prescott's sudden retirement may not have reached their ears yet.

"Can't you leave a post-it note at his depository?"

"Already emptied and cleaned."

The admiring tone of voice had Ressler looking at Reddington in askance. He wondered when Reddington went back there. The room had been filled with evidence.

Evidence of cover ups… gone, Ressler thought grumpily.

Reddington glanced at the takeout between them. "One more stop along the way and then we'll drop you back off."

"I still need to get lunch," Ressler muttered, peeking into the top plate. This wasn't going to feed him.

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

The remaining two platters were left on a trolley cart where the site's personnel could help themselves. Reddington and Dembe took off with the third.

"Oh, wow." Aram chewed slowly on the mini-arrangement of caviar and herbal bits on a sliver of white toast. Stifling the noise he was about to make that should really remain between him and Samar.

"These are the best caviars I ever had," Cooper commented over his selection on a paper plate. Not bothered at all that this could be construed as inappropriate. Compared to all the stunts Reddington had pulled over the years, this was nothing. However he warned Reddington not to make this a habit.

"Tastes like salt," Ressler mumbled, swallowing grey colored caviar down with water.

Aram and Cooper looked affronted.

"Try the fish liver," Samar suggested, pointed at the pale cream colored slice that looked like brie sitting on brown toast. "It's smooth."

"Delicious."

"Wow, it's like cream."

"Tastes like bad beef pâté."

"What's the status on the fixer?" Cooper asked.

"Reddington is checking with more sources," Ressler replied, having already explained why they went to the Laguna. "Just to be sure he's really done. He's also looking into whether he can be bought."

"Are we going to pursue him?" Samar asked.

"No," Cooper decided. "Her death was ruled as an accident. Reddington has no proof. Prescott's gone. Until we have further reason, it's best to leave this whole mess alone."

"He's the only one who can prove Hitchen killed Wright," Samar pointed out. "Don't you want to go after him," she asked Ressler. "You can't get Hitchen but you can still get him."

"Yeah, I do," Ressler answered truthfully. "But we used him and Reven to get Hitchen. We can't get to him without it coming back on us."

Just like he couldn't confess and make a case for leniency without damning the task force, he thought miserably.

"Don't," Cooper warned him, seeing Ressler distressed with the circumstances. Knew how much Ressler wanted to bring Hitchen to justice.

"If this fixer is as good as Reddington say, let him gather intel and handle it first." Cooper grimaced, thinking how many times the officials above them became enemies once self serving interests collided with the duty to protect people and saving lives. "Prescott had connections to the National Security advisor; I don't want to go into this blind."

"Yes, sir," Ressler said unhappily, Samar giving him a comforting bump on the arm. Deepening the shame he felt. Because that's what he did, didn't he?

Went in blind. Clouded with anger.

And he was letting his team think he was unhappy for the wrong reasons.

"These are great, Ressler." Liz came up with Tom, joining them upstairs, having come from lunch themselves and delighted to find the extra treat upon their return.

"The caviars are almost fresh," Tom commented, ignoring Ressler's usual look of suspicion and annoyance every time he showed up.

"Ressler doesn't think so," Aram grumbled.

"Tasted like salt," Ressler repeated, moving his arm as Samar plucked a black caviar canapé off his plate and switched it with an abalone. "What the hell is he doing here," he asked Liz and Cooper.

Liz knocked a foot against her husband's under the table, warning him not to provoke her partner too much.

"Helping. There are people you'll want to keep an eye on since Red's currently out of the picture," Tom answered with a touch of smugness. He took private glee knowing it was going to aggravate Ressler once Liz's teammates knew he was Christopher Hargrave. One silver lining in his family drama.

Tom spotted the water bottle. "Are you just washing them down?"

"You're suppose to eat them slowly," Liz said, amused.

"Taste like salt." Ressler moved his other arm as Aram copied Samar's earlier maneuver, switching a yellow caviar out with raw salmon.

"So do I put his name under inactive status?" Aram asked.

"I think we should keep him off," Ressler replied. "Reddington's still trying to hire him. I think he wants him as another cleaner, too." Ressler hoped Reddington failed; he didn't want Prescott around to remind him what he did.

"And we might need him again." Ressler grimaced, he can't believe he just said that. Guilt scratched at his conscience. His teammates were going to read his reaction as disapproval over Reddington's new employee.

"Don't enter a record for now, Aram," Cooper ordered.

"We talking about Henry Prescott?" Liz asked, subdued at the reminder that Mr. Kaplan was gone before she got a chance to know her. A flicker of rage licked her heart remembering Reddington's extreme reaction that was the cause of that. She should have been told. She was her only other connection to her mother.

"Yeah," Ressler confirmed.

The sound of a harsh choke changed their attention towards Tom in concern as he cleared his throat.

"Did you say Henry Prescott?" Tom coughed again, looking pained.

"You know him?" Ressler asked, cold dread creeping up his shoulders, hoping that Tom didn't, at the same time hoping Tom would be able to tell them more. Unsure which one he wanted.

"I know of him. My old boss called him the devil. Said if any of us ever worked with Prescott he would put a bullet in our heads himself."

Ressler froze. Aware that shock overrode any sense of alarm he should be feeling. That was completely not what he expected Tom to say.

"So he's a really dangerous fixer?" Aram asked, the darkening anger on Tom's face worrying.

"Fixer? Are you kidding me?! More like saboteur." Tom clenched his fists, keeping his voice down in an angry whisper. This was why he wanted Reddington out of Liz's life. He kept bringing new threats to her. "And Reddington wants to hire him?!"

 _Saboteur._

Stinging pinpricks crashed over Ressler at the word.

That can't be right.

Reddington would have said something. He's about to object and challenge Tom with his own impressions when he remembered it was none of Tom's business. The mess with Prescott was between him and Reddington. And Ressler didn't want Tom meddling when the situation was already resolved.

If it is resolved, Ressler thought, his distrust of Prescott returning.

Cooper just looked put upon at another revelation of Reddington's omission. Liz shared her boss's sentiment, knowing both of them have ceased to be surprised.

"Well, apparently he quit," Samar said, watching Tom. As a fellow former covert operative she found his reaction intriguing. She didn't doubt his information. But it made Reddington's decision to place Ressler as Prescott's handler very odd.

"Quit," Tom repeated blankly.

"Yeah. Reddington's sources are saying Prescott retired," Aram offered, hoping that solved whatever issue Tom had. The new information striking new fear into him. The task force's close call with Reddington's previous cleaner still too recent.

"Quit," Tom echoed. Not believing what he was hearing. "Someone like that doesn't just quit. Not only does he destroy from inside out, he's a vindictive bastard and can play the long game. This guy is poison!" Tom warned.

"Funny. Sounds like you and Reddington," Ressler snarked, meeting Tom's glare with a glower of his own. Burying his confusion at Tom painting such a different picture of Prescott. He would never had called the fixer had he known.

"At least we're on your side," Tom shot back. Years ago Prescott wiped out several of his competitors and friends. If it hadn't been for the Major's tight control and steady leadership, he'd probably be dead too. "You know what we're up to."

"Do we?" Ressler looked at the former covert operative accusingly and Tom narrowed his eyes at him.

"Guess not if he didn't share Prescott's rep," Tom retorted. Angry, somehow still surprised that Reddington would hire someone like that. After everything that's happened. It strengthened his resolve to figure out the mystery of those bones. And it looked like he had better do it soon. "I'd shoot Reddington right now for trying to hire him."

"Tom!" Liz scolded, not looking forward to this new fight between her husband and Reddington. Ressler was throwing her a discreet glance, also concerned at this new information, and she gave him a small nod. She'll talk to Reddington later.

"Leave it alone, Tom," Cooper said firmly, calculating the new information, taking charge and watching Liz's husband. He's been paying more attention to the former spy ever since the truth of his identity was revealed to him. He could tell the man was still adjusting to it and was currently at loss how to deal with his parents. Knowledge of Agent Keen's parentage wasn't helping. It was going to make Tom reckless. "I'll bring it up with Reddington. But Prescott is irrelevant if he's inactive."

Tom glanced down at the appetizers from the Laguna.

"Mr. Keen," Cooper said, knowing exactly what Tom was thinking. "Do not bring a saboteur down on us. Don't create a problem when there isn't any to start with."

"I know," Tom grumbled. "Just … talk to Red before he hires him. This is a guy you don't want around."

Ressler stayed silent, appearing as if his attention was on Tom like everyone else. Not hiding his own darkened expression.

Uncertainty and anger clawed into him. This wasn't suppose to happen. He covered up his crime to protect the task force. And lying might also endangered them?

He's mad. Prescott was suppose to be a personal and private problem.

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~


	3. Chapter 3

**Warnings:** Choosing not to warn for anything. Read at your own risk.

A/N: I try to go light on crime. Because I don't know what I'm doing and making stuff up is hard. Hence, more shipping, less plot. Expect less case plot. I'm also really bad at coming up with names.

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

 _ **~Chapter Three~**_

Another three days, and still nothing from Prescott. Three more days of Ressler taking out his phone, hesitating over Prescott's number, then putting it away without doing anything. Unable to act on his paranoia or to leave the whole damn thing alone. He considered calling Reddington immediately after Tom's revelation, but restrained himself.

Patiently waited rather risk tipping Reddington off that something was wrong. If there was anything they needed to know, Liz would bring it to their attention. And Cooper had it out with Reddington the very next day.

Unfortunately Ressler had been in the field with Samar then, missing his chance to ask Reddington without looking suspicious.

Cooper told them nothing of what was said except that he had rebuked Reddington for the attempted manipulation of Ressler to be Prescott's handler and for planning to do so without informing either of them the full details of Prescott's skills. So apparently nothing of importance needed to be shared.

But still … worry and the need to hear it from Reddington gnawed at him. The safety of the task force and the fixer constantly on his mind. Confessing to Hitchen's accident began to appear to be the better choice. They survived Keen shooting the previous Attorney General in front of witnesses, they would survive his accidental manslaughter of a murderer.

The opening to Reddington finally provided by Liz, who shared with them that Tom was upset about Prescott again. Family dinner with Reddington became a quiet sparring of verbal knives when Tom brought up Reddington's tendency to keep people in the dark. Using Prescott as the latest example. Telling them she was concerned about Tom's vigilance and wouldn't give her a clear answer to what his beef was with the fixer. Like carrying a suitcase of secrets, was what Liz called it. Asked to let her know if Tom sought any of them for anything.

A ready excuse for broaching the subject. He only needed to catch Reddington. Hopefully alone.

Reddington accompanied by Dembe was fine.

As soon as they finished briefing the latest blacklisters Reddington offered up.

"Climate change," Cooper stated, eyeing Reddington like he was joking. "You want me to tell the director the reason why you've been stingy is because of climate change?"

"Yes, Harold," Reddington said with his usual good cheer, noting the task force were waiting for the outrageous explanation. "Opportunists are waiting to take advantage of the incoming chaos. Our blacklisters are also adjusting accordingly to the upheaval."

"Makes sense," Liz commented. "Climate change is a global impact. Probably the only thing that has simultaneous worldwide affect on social psyches." Whether they know it or not, she thought with dismay. Normal civilians were becoming more readable to her as they subconsciously adjusted, and not just because her profiling skills had improved. It put her on guard—leery of the shorter fuses she kept seeing. "People will change. The behavioral and operational patterns of the blacklisters will too."

"Rest assured, Harold, in between the droughts there will be a bountiful harvest and more blacklisters than you can put in a basket." Reddington smiled. "Today, I have for you a preliminary demonstration. Aram, if you please."

Ressler glanced back at the data of the current blacklisters on the overhead screens. Two women in their forties, the first one blonde, the second one brunette.

"Alice White, and Alice White," Aram started.

"For the record," Reddington interrupted, "They prefer Ms. Alice and Ms. White."

"Which one is which?" Liz asked.

"No idea," Reddington answered.

Aram continued on, "Two former pharmacologists who freelanced at pharmaceutical companies. Arrested ten years ago for theft of company supplies and research. Out after an year."

"These two are, in fact, drug makers behind the line of the cocaine brands Caterpillar and Turtle. Cocaine cut with hallucinogens or opioids. They design their products to be spectacularly addictive as experimental research in the study of drug addiction. Producing results that maximizes addiction while minimizing costs. The addicts are then supplied to our next blacklister." Reddington nodded to Aram to pull the next files up.

"Judgment of Weather," Aram announced, as pictures of devastated towns and empty buildings covered in snow popped up. "Um… yeah. That's it. Mr. Reddington?"

"Oh, yes, yes, apologies." Reddington stepped back into the briefing. "A trio of unknown men, religious sadists against drug addiction. They see catastrophic weather as divine cleansing. With the addicts supplied, they trap groups of victims to suffer extreme weather. Tornados. Floods. Deep cold. Freezing rain." Reddington turned back toward the group. "Which brings us to our next blacklister."

Cooper's brow raised. "Another one?"

"You're being generous." Liz wondered how the next blacklister tied in as she waited for new screenshots to appear.

Ressler looked at Aram, who shrugged.

"These current pictures will suffice, Aram," Reddington said. "Our final blacklister is called The Still Life. A mysterious cleaner with a reputation of cleaning up sites with many bodies. Well, now anyways."

"Now?" Liz frowned.

"A thief who is also a cleaner-for-hire as a means to acquire bodies. Stealing items of interest to go with the bodies for the purpose of creating a temporary art display. When a few years ago, began to accept contracts to clean up scenes of multiple homicides. Regularly providing his service to the Judgment of Weather. His small scaled art installations are no longer small."

"He's repurposing the crime scenes," Samar said with quiet disgust.

"And this has to do with climate change, how?" Ressler asked, speaking up for the first time.

"Weather patterns have become unpredictable. They're moving up their time tables to get in one last job," Liz said. "Judgment of Weather are planning to disband, aren't they? And with them, the Still Life."

"And without anyone to dispose of the test victims, the two Alice Whites may just retire," Ressler finished.

"Precisely. Selling off their research," Reddington confirmed. "These three came together a few years ago. Pooling their aligned interests, increasing each other's gains, to get as much as they can before it's all over. They are an example for the mercurial future, where normally lone parties organize, with the intention of coming apart."

"Do you have leads for us?" Cooper asked.

"Indeed, I do!" Reddington chirped.

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

"Reddington." Ressler quickened his pace, waylaying their exit.

"Donald. Here to ask about Prescott?" Reddington asked, slowing down.

"Yeah. Liz told us what happened."

Reddington sighed. "While the protectiveness is commendable, Tom is creating unnecessary anxiousness. The man is gone."

"Your sources all say he quit?" Ressler asked, still amazed it was true. "Does this mean you're not searching anymore?"

"For the moment. I am keeping eyes and ears open should he make a reappearance," Reddington replied. "I still have a proposition for him."

"So you're sure he won't come after the task force?" Ressler pressed.

"I'm sure. Why so worried?" Reddington asked, wondering if Tom had been brewing trouble in Donald. He had a funny sense of premonition that Tom was going to become a serious annoyance in the future.

"Tom's got Keen worried, and I've only seen him like that when she and Agnes are in danger," Ressler explained, continuing on with a touch of indignation, "and you didn't tell us everything. We had to find out from Tom that he's a saboteur."

"His previous profession," Reddington said airily.

"Called him a poisonous vindictive bastard," Ressler returned.

"And this has got you on alert." Reddington stopped and turned. "While I understand the memory of Mr. Kaplan's rampage is still fresh, this really is an overreaction. You all have dealt with much worse individuals."

"We forced him to give up evidence and Tom said his old boss called him the devil. He made it clear the guy was dangerous." Ressler was making an effort trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. He could tell this was—again—another instance where Reddington didn't want to give him a straight answer.

"While he is extraordinary talented at what he does, I find the reputation of his other skills overblown." Reddington laughed. "Although he's somewhat a tale in the circles Tom ran in."

"Why?" An uncomfortable ball of dismay and churned bile formed in Ressler's chest. So Prescott was one of them.

"Old history, forgotten grudges, Donald. Ones Prescott has laid to rest." Reddington sighed. He didn't have the time or resources to keep eyes on Tom if he decided to pursue this imaginary threat. "We're the only targets if Prescott wants retribution. As long as Tom doesn't start panicking and stir up dead memories, we'll all be fine."

Ressler thought that over, distracted from the evasive answer by the familiar echo of something Reddington told him once.

"Is that why you still want to hire him? To kill—" Ressler stopped himself. No, that wouldn't be it. Reddington would have done it already if murder was the solution to keep Keen safe.

Reddington patiently waited.

"… to _fix_ the problem that Liz is Masha Rostova?" Ressler asked, having trouble wrapping his mind around the question despite it coming from his mouth.

"Yes, Donald," Reddington smiled in approval. "That is in fact, the root of our problem."

"Why haven't you hired him before?"

"Quite simply, I don't trust him. Especially not with the necessary information he would need."

"But you're willing to trust him now?" Ressler asked with distaste, recalling what Keen went through with Tom.

"No, I'm willing to negotiate with him now. Mr. Kaplan destroyed all my agreements and alliances. Deserted by friendly associates. And she, as you know by now, was my closest confidante who handled all my affairs."

"Little to lose. Your business can afford him now," Ressler realized.

"You can get a measure of a man by how he treats someone who's down on his luck."

Ressler gave him a sour look. He wouldn't call Reddington currently down on his luck. "Why'd you want me as his handler, anyway? Shouldn't it be Samar?" Ressler asked, still suspicious.

"A trade, Donald. Prescott for the bullet. Putting the leash in your hand. Laurel expedited the lifting of your suspension because she suspected my intentions. To get you under her control. Your refusal set her off."

"Oh." Now Ressler felt a little bad for ruining Reddington's plan, before sense kicked in, reminding him Reddington's usual information reticence is what got him here in the first place.

"Now, if you excuse us, we both have places to be. Please put all worries about Prescott aside."

Ressler watched Reddington walk away with Dembe, wondering if he could really dismiss Prescott as a threat. Examined the idea of handing Prescott over to Reddington if that would save Keen and the rest of his teammates from whatever was coming for her. But then he remembered that would mean admitting the truth and pissing Prescott off when he was trying to keep the task force out of danger.

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

Reddington felt Dembe's silent disapproval as he drove them away.

"Elizabeth will not appreciate you using Ressler like this. You should tell him now. So he at least isn't unprepared," Dembe advised.

"They don't need to know," Reddington said after a moment, rolled his jaw, grating his back molars. Thinking how close the task force nearly came to its end. Of his imprisoned loyal friends and associates. His promise to see after their families now vulnerable after Kate's obliteration of his empire. "And Donald's very much a man of justice. I can't trust either of them with a whitelister. Not yet."

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

Reddington's lead sent them to an apartment of a buyer. High as he was on marijuana, the guy still wouldn't talk. After some searching through ledgers and piecing together clues in his study finally gave them a good guess where the drugs were being held.

The smell bothering him, Ressler went outside for fresh air, keeping a lookout while they waited for backup to take the perp into custody.

The perp was being led away in zip-tie when his phone rang.

Ressler's heart skipped a beat seeing Prescott's alias.

"I thought you said we were done?" _Play nice, play nice._ He was supposed to be his handler … he can handle Prescott ….

"Checking on you. You stopped by the Laguna."

"Can we talk about this later?" Ressler asked, returning Prescott's congeniality, hearing the car door slam shut on the arrested buyer. "I'm working."

"Sure. We're gonna talk soon."

"About what?"

"You letting me take the fall for you."

Ressler didn't answer.

"Not feeling trusting when there's a note in your psych file calling you a man of honor, with a strong bias against criminals. But we can talk about that later. Since you're working."

Rage rushed in at the violation of privacy.

"You are such a bitch!" Ressler snapped, ending the call. He pinched his nose, shoulders heaved as he breathed out. Getting his fury under control. He doesn't have time for this right now. He spins on his feet to return to his car, seeing Samar coming up behind him, close enough to hear the insult.

"You okay? Nothing Aram would scold you over?" Samar saw the lingering rage on her partner and reminded him of the time Aram made Ressler apologize by withholding the final direction to disarm a bomb.

Ressler couldn't stop himself from smiling at the gentle joke. The unexpectedness of Aram taking him to task a fond memory.

He's putting the phone back to his ear, rolling his eyes without heat at his partner as Samar walked away smiling. Feeling calmer, remembering that Reddington always maintained politeness in his dealings.

Gritted his teeth when the call went to voicemail.

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

Prescott set his phone back on the floor. The corner of his mouth quirked in amusement at Ressler's clipped apology.

Bending down, he gathered up the print outs he made, spread across the floor before him. Slowly, he fed them to the fireplace, the flames rising higher.

He pieced together what he could working backwards from the connections between Ressler, Hitchen, and Wright. Knowledge that Raymond Reddington was working with the feds had been critical.

And he's heard of the investigation of eighty-six bodies. More importantly, he knows Julian Gale was the agent in charge. Telling him all he needed to know about the dead. And why Laurel Hitchen was at the courtroom that day.

Why Reddington needed the Director of Criminal Division Reven Wright's body.

Checking the log file for the Reven Wright case showed the files weren't in storage. The request made by Ressler with the approval of an Assistant Director Harold Cooper months ago and never returned.

And then there's Ressler's partner. Elizabeth Keen, accused as Masha Rostova, pardoned by the president. Who had been on the run with Reddington.

Prescott thought he had the situation mostly figured out.

 _Can you prove Hitchen killed Reven Wright? Can you get me acquitted?_

But those two questions threw him. And the look on Ressler's face.

So he kept searching. Getting a hold of Ressler's medical files. The latest entry was an unpleasant discovery. He recognized those chemicals and knew what he was going to find before he read the physician's comments.

Very few people had a talent for memory manipulation on a level to operate successfully in Reddington's world. And fewer still were the people who could treat their victims.

He knew them all, of course. Kept up to date on them and their work.

Knew on the day Ressler was arrested at Hitchen's lakeside cottage, Dr. Bogdan Krilov was taken in FBI custody.

Doctor Krilov, he knew, was skilled and careful. His machines were set not to retain a data cache. Preventing anyone from pulling evidence.

And going by Dr. Selma Orchard's journal, Ressler's team was equally as dedicated. She wrote about the technician who throughly scrubbed Ressler's data from the machine Dr. Krilov stole from her. About the intimidating Middle Eastern woman supervising, who scared away any temptation to fight for a copy.

The forgetful memory specialist recounted her day in agitated handwriting, lapsed into long handed words from the usual short handed perfunctory language. Complaints about losing her chance to have a recording of one of Dr. Krilov's sessions. Disappointment that Ressler refused to have a session with her or give permission to review his data her machine recorded. Called and warned Agent Keen of the possible side effects.

No wonder he kept reading Ressler wrong. The agent hadn't time to recover and Prescott didn't find any indication of Ressler going through a follow-up therapy. And Ressler's sense of justice and honor must be battered, falling towards a crisis of faith and identity. Sure, he was pushing Ressler's buttons, but he had been going easy. And he'd expected better control until Ressler stormed into the hotel's laundry room angry and gave himself away.

Prescott bit the tip of his tongue at the rationalizing lies.

With a hard flick he sent the last of the print outs into the fire.

The truth? He made a mistake. There was no other reason.

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~


	4. Chapter 4

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

 _ **~Chapter Four~**_

Ressler had turned off all the lights in his apartment. Tried to meditate. Thought about working out but decided the adrenaline was going to keep him up.

Paced back and forth in the dark, his apartment washed in muted blue-gray, dimly lit by the outside moon.

Jittery. Exhausted.

Tempted.

They found the shipment of drugs. Much larger than expected. Shots were fired once the swat team entered and the perps couldn't hide. Then a shooter threw a bundled cocaine into the metal ceiling fan above them, dispelling white powder. Some of the drug descended on him and Keen, leaving Samar with the only clear head to continue the investigation.

They both felt energized, like downing three shots of expresso, at the same time a lethargy took hold and an unwillingness to move. Neither felt they inhaled enough to have their minds clouded, but Cooper pulled them off, had them checked over, and sent them home for the day. Leaving Samar to work on the paper trail with Aram.

Hours later, without thinking, Ressler opened his medicine cabinet, taking out leftover codeine pills. Nearly removing the cap when he recognized the familiar insidious need for what it was. Slamming down the bottle hard.

Went back to lying in bed. Before getting up and taking another hot shower. Crawled back under the bed covers.

Got up.

He had taken out melatonin, Ambien, and ibuprofen. One by one. Lined them up with the codeine on the wooden table. Wondered if he could substitute one of them for his sudden craving. But told himself he didn't know how dangerous it would be to mix a medication with the cocaine still affecting him. He at least knew the designer crack had been cut with codeine.

Ressler stopped pacing and rubbed his forehead. Frustrated at himself for his past addiction to painkillers. Cursing the new blacklisters with every fouled word he could think of in his head.

Wanting to hit something.

He got over his addiction, confident enough to store codeine in his home again. But this new experience with cocaine was throwing off his ability to deal. Drawing out the memory of how Oxy made him feel better and ready.

A knot of tension burrowed between his shoulder blades, creating an ache at the base of his neck, creeping upwards to his skull. His agitation tightening the knot, sapping him of energy.

It was pissing him off.

He just wanted the comfort of sleep.

Went back to his bedroom and laid on his back, arms and fingers loosely spread.

Deep breaths.

Slowly in … slowly out.

Trying to loosen that uncomfortable knot.

It felt like all he did was wind the tension tighter.

He's going to be tossing and turning tonight.

Frustrated, he kicked off the bed covers and went back to the living room.

Sitting down, Ressler bit his lip looking at the orange bottles on the table, the color almost gone in the dark. He has work tomorrow. Maybe he could take one just so he can sleep, one more day until the weekend. Unless something came up, he didn't have to worry about showing up for work. Just one today, then he can get through tomorrow. Deal with his addiction on the weekend when he's free to devote his time ignoring the siren call that he's invited by falling off the wagon.

The doorbell rang, the low clear chime grating across his nerves, irritably cursing whoever it was at this hour.

Pushing the chair away from the table, his ears twinge in pain at the sound of the wood scraping hard against the floor, Ressler angrily strode toward the door and looked through the peephole.

Closed his eyes, told himself to keep his cool, yanked the door open.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Ressler growled.

"Gonna let me in before someone sees me?" Prescott said, keeping his voice bland as he picked up something was wrong with Ressler.

Ressler stepped aside, shutting the door behind Prescott with a thud.

Prescott took in the darkened apartment. Well-kept, simple with no sense of aesthetics, no plants or indications of a hobby, a little muss in corners. He spotted the line of medication bottles before turning back to Ressler.

"What happened to you?" Prescott asked, giving Ressler another once over. Well this was inconvenient.

"None of your business." Ressler really wanted to hit him right now. His outrage simmered at Prescott in his home. Feeling self-conscious in his sleeping t-shirt and cotton pants while Prescott was dressed for business.

"You should go," Ressler said, his tone hard.

"Your addiction is back." Prescott eyed Ressler, wondering what happened while the agent was on the clock.

The anger surged as Ressler recalled today's phone call, making his head hurt.

"You went through my medical records!"

"I'm getting the blame. Seems fair." Prescott saw the discomfort in Ressler, his presence further winding him up, and deliberately put his hands in his pockets.

Ressler tamped down on his anger. "How do you even know about that?" Ressler asked, managing not to shout.

"Obvious deduction," Prescott replied seriously. "Did you use again?" Prescott asked, lowering his voice. He would prefer the agent keep it together but he didn't think that was happening tonight.

"No. And none of your business," Ressler answered hotly.

"It is if you're going to be strung out and desperately bartering whatever you can to get your next fix," Prescott pointed out matter-of-factly, seeing the lurking violence that Ressler was losing to. Bracing himself for the escalation.

"Get out," Ressler snarled, having enough. Without thinking, he grabbed Prescott by one arm, shoving and dragging him towards the door. He just want everything to go away and _let him sleep._

"Let. Go."

Ressler ignored him, refusing to release his grip when Prescott pulled his arm away, intent on kicking him out of his apartment. Almost stumbling backwards when suddenly Prescott wouldn't budge.

Redoubling his effort, throwing his weight to pull Prescott along when his foot caught on a leg of the chair.

Stumbling.

A kick between his calf and knee, and an arm wrapping under his shoulder pushing him down drove his momentum toward the floor.

Landed on one knee hard, held upright by Prescott.

His face was inches from the wall.

Prescott's hand tightened in warning.

Slowly, Prescott released him and Ressler stood up, a flush of warmth that was hurt pride swept over him and he's glad for the lack of light.

"Well you're definitely in no condition to have a discussion," Prescott said quietly.

Ressler couldn't come up with a reply, wincing as Prescott switched on the lamp beside his couch. Watching Prescott as the fixer briskly moved to the thermostat controls and turned up the heat. Grabbing and lifting the offending chair, setting it nearby the couch and coffee table. The swift movements disorientating.

"Sit down," Prescott ordered, sitting down himself. Waiting.

Embarrassed and slightly dizzy, Ressler sat down on his couch.

"Lie down and close your eyes," Prescott calmly commanded, sounding at ease.

"What?!"

"Lie down and close your eyes," Prescott repeated.

"Like hell," Ressler bit out.

"I'm helping. Humor me. I promise I'll leave afterwards. You know I'm not going to kill you."

"Why do you care?" Ressler gripped the edge of the couch, rage and embarrassment coiling him into a slouch that made his shoulders hurt.

"So you don't screw up—which you did again—and get us both killed by Reddington. I'm starting to think you will because you're pinning the death on me and I don't trust you to keep up the lie. Feel shame if you want. Don't care. I know you don't feel guilty. Don't care. Just don't screw up. Let me help you. You don't want your addiction in control, do you? Think of this as payback for not letting you smack yourself into the wall. Don't want my help? Too bad. Maybe I'll change my mind about letting you go. Hurry up, or I'll be here longer."

Ressler hands curled and uncurled at the threat of blackmail. The muscle in his jaw twitched, and he slipped off his sandals, stretching out on the couch, sick and tired of Prescott's presence in his home. Shifting the small rest pillow so it comfortably cradled his aching neck. Kept a hostile glare on Prescott for making him do this, wordlessly telling him to get it over with.

"Close your eyes."

After a moment, going against every instinct, Ressler forced himself to close his eyes. Flexed his hands and rested them across his sternum. Tense and keenly aware that Prescott was with him.

"Wait for it …." Prescott said softly. "I'm turning off the light."

Flinched at the small click and Ressler felt the change in lighting.

In the dark, Ressler waited for Prescott to speak again. Thumbs twitching, feeling foolish. Pride had him attempt to hide his outward discomfort and Ressler tried to even out his breathing.

What felt like a minute ticked past.

"Focus on me …."

Not hard, Ressler thought sullenly, keeping his attention on the dark silhouette he imagined Prescott as sitting away from his feet. Convincing himself to loosen up and not lash out in paranoia and looking like a fool.

"I am not doing anything … I am just here …. Concentrate your mind on me."

Ressler listened, distrustful of the mellow voice, and waited.

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

The alarm on his phone was going off in another room and Ressler reluctantly woke, comfortable in his warmed apartment.

Then the events of last night came rushing back. He looked down to see he's covered with his black winter coat that had been hanging on the coatrack.

Sitting up. Eyes darting around the apartment. No Prescott in sight.

He had dozed off.

Fell asleep with an enemy in the room.

Getting off the couch in shock, wincing at the slight ache in his knee.

Checked his door and saw that Prescott had locked up behind him.

Tapped off the wakeup notice on his phone that remained as he left it on his bedside nightstand.

He cursorily checked the rest of his apartment. Useless if Prescott didn't want him to find anything.

Ressler stopped. Prescott had returned the chair back to its proper place… and the medication bottles were gone from the table.

The medicine cabinet he left opened last night was now closed.

Resolutely, he ignored the urge to check and walked away. He had to get ready for work.

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~


	5. Chapter 5

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

 _ **~Chapter Five~**_

"Morning."

"Morning."

"How did your night go?" Liz asked. She had been worried about Ressler. She thought about checking on her partner, but by the time she had been hit with the side effects it was too late in the night. She didn't want to wake Ressler if he managed to get some rest. But he looked well rested. Just a little grumpy.

"Not that bad. Couldn't sleep until I did some meditating," Ressler said, unable to keep a note of irritation out of his voice, annoyed and disappointed in himself for falling asleep. He supposed keeping his focus on Prescott counted as meditating. "You?" He did a quick body check on Keen, seeing nothing to be of concern.

"Not bad. I filled the sink with hot water. Stuck my face in and screamed my brains out."

Ressler blinked. "And that worked?"

"Yeah. Fell right asleep." Liz took a sip of coffee. "Freaked Tom out."

"Huh." Ressler filed that away. He could use that in the future.

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

They caught the two Alice Whites. Traced the shipments to multiple clinics. To a lab in a private medical research institute where they worked under false identities.

To a rabbit farm where the test addicts were being held.

Interviewing the two yielded that the Judgement of Weather would be contacting them on Monday for a location pickup.

Leaving Ressler thankfully free to deal with Prescott without worrying that he'll interfere during work hours.

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

It's late.

He should be sleeping.

Ressler looked down at his phone. Tapping his thumb on the wooden table indecisively.

If Prescott was going to show up at his apartment again Ressler would rather it be on his terms.

But he also preferred not to have the fixer here at all.

 _Screw this,_ Ressler thought irritably as he got up and headed to bed.

He'll give Prescott a hard time for coming unannounced and waking him up.

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

It's late Sunday morning when Ressler was pulled away from cleaning up after breakfast by the doorbell.

Ressler looked through the peephole, stomped down on his antipathy, and opened the door.

Wordlessly held Prescott's gaze for a moment before stepping aside.

Prescott breezed past Ressler, coming to a stop in the middle of the living room.

"Okay. Let's try this again."

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~


	6. Chapter 6

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

 ** _~Chapter Six~_**

"What did you do to me?" Ressler asked without preamble.

"Nothing. You fell asleep," Prescott answered matter-of-factly, brushing off Ressler's hostility.

"Yeah, right," Ressler scoffed, his mood plummeting further, aware that under the influence of drugs his recollection was suspect. The last thing he remembered was Prescott telling him to concentrate on his presence.

"You were exhausted. Wired. And then you got all worked up with me around," Prescott said truthfully. "You finally shut down." Far, far too quickly for someone who naturally was being uncooperative. Even after tracking down what happened to Ressler that day. Not with his medical history.

Ressler regarded Prescott with distaste. He actually believed Prescott—much to his chagrin.

Because being around the fixer was aggravating. Irritation had already settled, and exhaustion was slowly seeping in seeing Prescott stand in the middle of his apartment like he owned the place. Feeling ineffectual as Prescott reacted to his disdain with a small smirk and shrug of shoulders, taunted a wordless reminder of Ressler's failed attempt to throw him out.

"What did you do after?" Ressler asked, plowing past that memory, still suspicious and finding Prescott's nonverbal provoking discomfiting.

"Nothing," Prescott enunciated slowly. "I left. Like you wanted me to."

The tone grated, and Ressler kept his distance from Prescott, reluctant to accept the answer. The fixer wore an unflappable demeanor and Ressler wanted to circle around him like he would to a difficult suspect in interrogation.

"I have an assignment for you."

Ressler's expression darkened.

"Don't worry," Prescott interrupted before Ressler could say anything. "You won't be doing anything illegal. You're going to look up your fellow feds: Alisa Sullivan, Thomson Ishihara, Heinrich Schreiber, Evelyn Aidas."

Ressler frowned. "I know those agents."

Schreiber did a short stint on the previous incarnation of the Reddington task force before he transferred. The other three he had worked with in passing. Back then, he had studied their cases as suspected tangents to Reddington's criminal activities.

All four were deceased.

Later, he had looked into their deaths thinking either Reddington or his associates had been involved.

"What did you do?" Dread threaded itself through Ressler, disappointment wavered at the back of his mind. Those were good agents. He knew their reps and admired their careers.

"You're assuming I did something," Prescott said placidly.

"I know their files. I've studied their cases."

"Look again," Prescott ordered.

Ressler bristled. "More entrapment for your insurance? I'm not giving you any information."

"I'm helping you make an informed choice." Prescott refrained from sighing, annoyed at the entanglement with Ressler. Because of course Ressler was going to be stubborn about any peace of mine he offered.

"Informed choice?" Ressler scowled at the impatience in Prescott's tone. "For what?"

"You're stressed. From killing Hitchen. Covering it up. Get over it. Use that moral compass of yours and do your job."

"My job," Ressler said pointedly, "is to arrest you."

"Well, you can't," Prescott replied with haughtiness.

"Because you're blackmailing me," Ressler responded with equal scorn.

"Only to stop you from making a mess of things," Prescott snapped back. "See, this is why I hide evidence. When I released you, you started thinking about confessing, because it reminded you of being a good agent. That you had principles you upheld. Everything before Reddington."

Prescott finally gave in to a small sigh at the startled expression on Ressler's face, and stepped closer. He had been right. Agent Ressler was considering turning himself in.

"But you're conflicted. You've thought about pinning the murder on me. Not because working with Reddington corrupted you. But because your loyalty to your team is corrupting you," Prescott said, hardening the tone of his voice.

Prescott's declaration stunned Ressler, halting his suspicions to what traps Prescott was setting for him.

Prescott gestured at him with a hand. "You're trying to protect them. Your task force is facilitating Reddington's criminal activities. Exchanging murderers over his own. What's one more trade between your's and Hitchen's? You don't want to go to jail for someone like her, do you?"

Prescott shook his head and moved away from Ressler. "Why should you? Ethics. Justice. They don't matter while you're working with Reddington. All you got is loyalty."

At that Ressler reacted, stammered silently.

Prescott abruptly crossed the floor, leaning in towards Ressler.

"There's nothing wrong with you. Go do your damn job. And let me do mine," Prescott said into Ressler's face, the movement forcing Ressler to unconsciously step back in confusion. Backing off, Prescott returned to the middle of the living room to give Ressler space to think.

A moment of silence before Ressler shook his head, shaking off his shock, face scrunching up as he processed what Prescott was saying through the arresting flair.

His mouth pulled into a mean, toothy grin as he looked back up at Prescott.

"You don't care if Reddington thinks you did it. You don't want me to confess. You'd lose your leverage," Ressler said smugly, enjoying how Prescott's eyes flicked down toward his grin. Prescott was hiding it but Ressler could see the worry.

Something about that was tugging at the back of Ressler's mind.

"Like I said. Keep Reddington away from me." Prescott's mouth twisted into a wry smile.

"And I'm officially taking you on as my client," Prescott announced, displeased about his decision but seeing little choice in the matter.

Ressler's face changed into a grimace—his moment of reveling in Prescott's discomfort gone. "Why? I don't want your services. And you said you were done."

"Hey! You called me, remember? If you had turned yourself in at the start we wouldn't be in this mess," Prescott reminded Ressler, anger coloring his voice. He blamed himself too. As far as screw ups went, this turned out to be a big one.

"So do what I say," Prescott commanded, "and look up those agents. Be quick so I can give you your next assignment. Then we can be done and go our separate ways."

Ressler bit his bottom lip at the reminder of what he didn't do, almost awkwardly shifting his feet as he became stuck between catching himself in the action and about to agree to Prescott's demands.

Annoyed, he sullenly collected himself as Prescott watched.

It made him stop.

Something about Prescott this time had perplexed trepidation waiting in the back of his mind. A calculation he hasn't seen from Prescott that was unsettling—the head game in the theatrics clear but he couldn't stop listening.

Unsure why when he has seen these machinations in more ruthless individuals. In the insidious showmanship of soulless cult leaders who wielded their manipulation with more subtlety than Prescott's overtness. Schemings hidden by a slimy deftness that repulsed him; made him try all that much harder to catch them. Glimpsed it in Reddington under the mask of congeniality.

The revelation of what was troubling him finally hit Ressler.

 _Prescott wanted him to see._

They stood in silence as Ressler hesitated, uncertainty shaking him; Prescott waiting for something.

Tom's description and Reddington's words flooded back as Ressler kept his focus on Prescott. Gauging the conviction behind Tom's anger and Reddington's evasiveness. Tom's belief that Prescott posed a danger. Examined how Reddington acknowledged Prescott's skills and wanted to hire him, but distrusted him around the workings of his empire and associates.

 _Poison._

Unbidden memories of poorly dealing with Prescott came. Lashing out, his emotions getting the better of him that night in the garden. Tired from Prescott dragging him around to do manual labor. And he had gone over the night when Prescott first entered his home in detail. The disorientation and exhaustion that he marked as side effects of cocaine. The draining anger when Prescott ordered him to lie down in his long rapid speech that played on his emotions.

A shift in Prescott's loose stance as Ressler's guard went up, slipping into agent mode.

"You're doing this."

Like Prescott said, Ressler was stressed. But now he knew Prescott was exacerbating his emotional state. Getting past his guard taught by the Academy and strengthened by experience to withstand the enervating effects of toxic personalities.

No.

Ressler reined in the new flowing anger as he told himself to get a grip.

More like he was forgetting to raise it.

Jesus christ.

All this time—he never noticed. He was so preoccupied with his own corruption when he was around Prescott that he had forgotten to be an agent.

Tired resentment swept through Ressler as he realized something else; the reason why Reddington chose him to be Prescott's handler.

Reddington wanted him to be a shield.

No, not a shield—a buffer, Ressler thought with a bitterness that had burrowed since Kaplan's war against Reddington. To protect Keen, who probably would like nothing more than to have a sit down with Prescott.

"What did you do to me that night?" Ressler asked again, distrust redoubling at Prescott's ability to be emotionally draining and destabilizing. Suddenly aware of the empty space of his home had muffled and closed around him as a weight.

"You shut down because I shut you down," Prescott answered truthfully. "Nothing else."

"How?" Ressler demanded, his hands clenching into fists. "How did you do it?"

"I wore you down. You were already under something mind-altering," Prescott explained, keeping a watchful eye on Ressler. "Your mind overloaded when I forced you to do something you would never do. Pitted that against all the stressors I brought up and you needing me to leave and wanting sleep."

"And after?" Ressler asked, nausea twisting his gut.

"That's it," Prescott responded, knowing what Ressler was thinking and wanted to ask. "Yeah. I know about Krilov."

Ressler ignored the rage at hearing that name and at the reminder that Prescott got into his medical records.

"Why?" Ressler asked.

"I'm not playing Reddington's game."

The explanation for the show of hand took Ressler back to the memory of Prescott with his back against the car—Dembe close by. The two standing at ease but Ressler knew better. Dembe had a knack for projecting calm and stillness. An invisible wall when he wanted to be. One could completely forget he was in the room. His impassive serenity an off-putting presence in tandem with Reddington's disarming charisma, cloaking Reddington's manipulativeness. And useful when it came to controlling a situation where the most dangerous factor was the twitchiness of the inexperience or easily agitated.

Over the years, Ressler had learned the best way for him to handle those types of people was still his usual approach of heavily wielding authority. Bulldozing their force of personality aside.

Ressler stalked forward—nausea dissipating—only stopping before Prescott hit the wall—satisfied with Prescott giving up ground.

"Stop that," Ressler demanded.

The nonchalance Ressler received almost drove him to shove Prescott in his fury at being played. For getting under his skin without him noticing.

" _Stop. It._ "

Ressler took another step closer—bringing them toe-to-toe—and suddenly Prescott's unassuming build wasn't unassuming, cutting a dark edge against the wall. An underlying steadiness to him that Ressler had seen once before.

Almost. This wasn't the same.

Stepping away, feeling back on kilter, Ressler sized Prescott up with new understanding. There was a disquieting sensation of knowing something lifted away—only because he could feel it was no longer there.

An overlap, Ressler decided. He'd been covered by an overlap.

"Stop coming here. Find somewhere else to meet up," Ressler demanded.

"Fine," Prescott said, gone was the harsh edge in his voice.

Ressler glared at Prescott. "And I take back all my apologies."

"You were a little bit sorry," Prescott commented calmly, hiding his relief at seeing Ressler finally getting a grip on himself.

"Delete that voicemail," Ressler ordered.

"Long gone." Prescott had almost been reluctant, and he had listened to the gritted apology—followed by a new insult—several times in amusement before removing it.

Ressler was coldly furious, noting the absence of inflections in the neutral voice. Steady. The aggressive intonation and arrogance gone.

"You are such a bitch," Ressler said flatly.

The lack of reaction from Prescott increased Ressler's anger. He almost moved, wanting to circle the man, but Prescott had the wall behind him.

Prescott gave Ressler an empty smile—the impulse hadn't been missed.

Ressler brushed aside the mocking, instead viciously noting Prescott wasn't willing to leave his back open to him anymore.

"Give me something I can believe you with. I want a name," Ressler said, not trusting there wasn't ill-will lurking underneath Prescott's decision to be his fixer.

The smile faded away.

"No," Prescott refused firmly, keeping scorn-tipped frustration silent that Ressler wasn't accepting the revelation of manipulation skills. Though he half-expected rejection given Ressler's history. And begrudgingly, he had to respect Ressler for demanding collateral.

"No?" Ressler echoed, disbelieving. Prescott needed him to do something. That much Ressler was sure of.

"Client confidentiality," Prescott stated.

"Client confidentiality?! You went through my medical files!"

"I needed to do my job. Wasn't like you were going to tell me exactly what happened. Or about yourself," Prescott said smoothly, deliberately putting the blame on Ressler. "Be glad I did. Because you were going to trip up."

The muscle in Ressler's jaw twitched. At the shifting of blame and the complete lack of obnoxiousness he had thought inherent to Prescott.

"What about deceased clients?" Ressler asked, filing away the fact that Prescott's change of demeanor didn't mean he had dropped the manipulativeness.

"Ceases upon death. But I'm not picking out names for you."

"Bella Marina's sister and brother-in-law. What did they do?" Ressler asked after a quick pause, testing where he could exploit Prescott's rules. Prescott was still a criminal and it was only a matter of finding the right motivation to make him talk.

"No. Conflicting interests." Inwardly, Prescott winced at seeing Mr. Sturgeon again—a reminder he misjudged Ressler twice.

"I'm told she's a debtor." Ressler watched Prescott's lips thinned at the seizure of a technicality.

"Reddington," Prescott stated, displeased at the indication of Reddington's vast knowledge.

"She didn't murder anyone, if that's what you're wondering," Prescott said, refusing to explain the nature of the debt. "I told her she could have me hide the bodies, or how to weather the scandal. I'm sure you picked up on her anxiety problem."

Ressler scowled at the unexpected considerate gesture.

"You gave her a choice? Why?" Ressler asked in frustration, wondering why he hadn't gotten one. The question slipped out before he remembered he didn't give Prescott much of a choice but to deal with Hitchen's corpse.

"Because it's what I do …?" Prescott trailed off in puzzlement when Ressler directed new anger at him. The blended resentment and surprise in the question surprised him. He expected Ressler to pursue the matter of the Laguna deaths, not react negatively to extending his service to someone who wasn't a client.

The lines all fell in place, showing the empty pieces where they skipped, seeing how Ressler's ignorance and his own mistaken assumptions led them here. The twist and turns they would have taken if Ressler hadn't called him.

Prescott had to applaud the Concierge of Crime.

It was easier to stop guilt-ridden clients from jeopardizing the jobs he did for them when they couldn't forget how much it had been their choice—preventing them from transferring the blame onto him out of denial and fear—while he provided emotional stability. The greatest danger were always his own clients. A problem at times requiring him to have the client eliminate themselves. Something he couldn't do with Ressler.

"Reddington didn't tell you devil's advocation and coaching are part of my service, did he?"

If looks could kill, Ressler was wearing one now.

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~ 


	7. Chapter 7

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

 _ **~Chapter Seven~**_

"You okay?" Ressler asked, looking away from his files on Reddington's suspected associates and businesses that he separated from the intel he requested last week. His desk covered with folder piles. Laying the groundwork to put in the request on the agents—following Prescott's instructions to pull all the old Reddington files and associated cases that he looked into for new leads.

Easy enough. He had been on the old Reddington task force. Nothing out of the ordinary if he was the one requesting the old files and anything associated with them. His name was already on most of the cases.

"Ugh. A customer lost it in the coffee shop," Liz grumbled as she grabbed several folders from the stack designated for violent criminal offenders off Ressler's desk. In slow motion, she saw the split second the customer flipped the switch to uncontrolled fury when the cashier informed him the unavailability of his order. Setting off a chain reaction when he turned on the people around him.

"Pulled out my badge. Helped the baristas get the crowd under control." The grateful expressions on their faces told her that they've seen these indoor road rages enough times and she had left a larger tip in the tip jar.

"This is why I brew my own at home."

"Yeah, but I wanted something fancy today. And heads up. Tom wants to speak to you," Liz said offhandedly. "Expect to be ambushed."

"Why?" Ressler asked, annoyed. When Keen said Tom was going to ambush him, she meant it. Popping up unexpectedly instead of calling him to meet like a normal person.

"Prescott," Liz answered simply.

"Still?" Ressler said, his tone coming out harder than intended. Still in a bad mood from yesterday's revelations, Ressler hoped Tom wouldn't be an added complication. "The guy quit."

"Tom doesn't trust Reddington judgment on this," Liz explained.

"Cooper told him not to do anything," Ressler reminded her.

"He's not. He's been out picking out safe houses and escape routes in case Prescott comes after us." Liz had asked her husband if maybe he was being overly paranoid but Tom was convinced they needed to play it safe. Argued that even if Prescott wasn't a threat, they had to take precautions against Reddington's other enemies. Privately, she sensed Tom still considered the need to flee from her father a possibility. "Says he's just being prepared."

Aram poked his head into the room.

"The prisoner transport is here."

Ressler shuffled the files back into a pile and they left to move the Alice Whites for the sting operation.

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

Things didn't go as planned. There were bystanders that became hostages and in the midst of gunfire, two members of the Judgment of Weather committed suicide by cop and the third remained serenely silent to interview and interrogation.

Currently, they were looking for clues in the perpetrators' ranch on how to track down the Still Life. Working fast before the blacklister realized something was wrong and went underground.

Splitting up, Ressler searched the neatest garage he's ever seen when his phone vibrated quietly in his pocket.

"Busy," Ressler said succinctly.

"Where are you on those agents?"

"I'm working," Ressler said flatly, opening cabinets that held repair tools and supplies.

"Did you even put in the request, yet?"

"Not a good time," Ressler said, keeping a hold on his temper against the coercive and guilt-tripping tone.

"Well, if you don't hurry up, soon you won't have a badge."

"Stop that," Ressler bit out, wondering how the hell Prescott managed to calibrate his personality to be draining even over the phone. The cadence of Prescott's voice snagged his attention and his strength along with it.

"Do you know how you're gonna tie the Still Life cleaner to the homicides?"

That stopped Ressler. Along with the abrupt change in Prescott's voice.

"What makes you think we're looking for that suspect?" Ressler asked guardedly. He hadn't actually expected Prescott to stop, switching to the steady neutral tone.

"I have my own sources."

Ressler mulled that over. Not liking the implications.

"Do you know who it is?" Ressler asked in cool politeness, testing what he could get out of the fixer. Prescott sounded amiable, and he knew better than to trust there wasn't deception. But he rather deal with Prescott's calm manipulation than his aggressive smarminess.

Silence on the other end of the line.

"Can you tell me anything?" Ressler asked carefully.

"They would own some of the Still Life paintings."

"Nice to confirm we're on the right track," Ressler commented, keeping the sarcasm out of his voice. They already made the connection to the large oil paintings. Twisted, abstract bodies set in fiery rocky landscapes hung all over the building. The advance technical skill looked distinct and Aram already ran an image search that turned up nothing.

"Find any watercolor pieces?"

"Yeah." There was a heavy journal filled with observational landscape paintings in the the van. Amateurish, but detailed enough and they were using the artwork to tie the Judgment of Weather to the homicide sites.

"Some artists make their own paints. Exchanging colors with other artists. Using natural resources they grind themselves. Black tourmaline, lapis lazuli, jasper. Not uncommon to mix gold with honey."

Ressler glanced at his phone quizzically when Prescott hung up.

Putting his phone away, Ressler went over to a row of rocks on a work table, sitting below a board hung with dust masks and goggles among assorted pliers. Placed neatly against the wall, he had thought the colored chunks of stones were there as inspirational meditation for the bead crafting. Individual glass boxes of beaded bracelets with blank wooden name tags were stacked on a nearby shelf.

Squatting down, Ressler opened the small sliding cabinet underneath the table. Short, square glass bottles of paint were arranged by color on one shelf. The off-white handwritten labels giving them a rustic look. On the bottom shelf were brand new cylindrical bottles with thicker glass and neatly typed white labels listing the ingredients. The black plastic lids looked of sturdier quality than the gray ones on the square bottles.

Thoughtfully, Ressler contacted Aram.

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

Through cross checking and process of elimination they located the Still Life, finding similar oil paintings along with watercolor sketches of the victims. A cut and dry arrest with an added hassle of Reddington insisting that they find a new home for the several beehives the Still Life was keeping. Aram agreed, pointing out the global population of honey bees were dropping. Cooper relented and allowed Reddington to relocate the bees.

Sending out his request for the case files was his last task of the night. Burying the files he was really after in the bulk order.

It was getting late, but Ressler was able to get dinner and extra for breakfast before his favorite food truck drove off. And extra for tomorrow's lunch. He didn't want to take time away from the case files once they arrived.

The sooner he finished whatever it was Prescott wanted him to see, the sooner he could get rid of the man, Ressler thought darkly as he climbed into his car.

The passenger door opened and Ressler's shoulders sagged in resignation.

"Can't you call?" Ressler said tiredly as he set his takeout on top of the dashboard now that Tom was occupying the seat beside him.

"It helps to stay in practice."

"By seeing if you can get the jump on me?"

"Maybe if you didn't unlock all the doors I wouldn't have." Tom smirked at him.

Ressler shot Tom a look of annoyance. It was an unconscious reflex that came from having partners and being the usual designated driver throughout his life. Keeping the automatic disengagement settings had been simply convenient.

"The locks are automatic. And I bet you do it too," Ressler accused. He considered switching to manual, but efficiency and emergencies outweighed the paranoia.

"Point taken," Tom accepted, thinking it over. But he was better about that habit since Agnes. "You think it's a guy thing?"

"What do you want?" Ressler asked tiredly. His day was done and he wanted to go home—eat, shower, sleep.

"Did Reddington tell you anything else about Prescott? You remember anything else? What he looks like?"

"You already asked me that," Ressler said, irritation returned to his voice. Tom had grilled him the day he revealed Prescott was a saboteur. "I told you. He looked like a nobody."

"Yeah, but I was hoping you remembered new details. Being FBI and all. Caucasian, dark hair, short, scrawny? Not much to go on."

"Why don't you ask Reddington? Or maybe Dembe?" Ressler asked, losing patience. Tom renewing old anger at himself for being fooled again. Like when Keen first introduced her husband, Prescott had been presenting himself as innocuous the first time Ressler saw him. It was the false details from that memory he gave Tom. He almost slipped and gave Tom the actual description, only realizing in time that Reddington could put together he was still in contact with Prescott.

"I did," Tom replied in a half-retort. "They told me to leave things alone."

"Well, why aren't you?" Ressler asked, temper coiling. He didn't want to deal with Tom too. "Reddington doesn't think he's a problem."

"It's _Reddington_. He wouldn't," Tom objected. "What about the rest of us?"

"What's the big deal?" Ressler grumbled, keeping the truth that Prescott was his problem to himself and he really wanted everyone else to stay out of it. Especially when the situation was now under control. "We've taken down bigger threats than one lowly fixer."

Tom looked at Liz's partner in irritation.

"Don't you get it? The task force is running a clandestine operation. Sabotaging secret organizations and operations is his specialty." It was the reason he wasn't reaching out to Howard and his friends at Halcyon. He didn't want to risk leaving a trail back to them. Not when they were still dealing with Scottie's betrayal.

"You're in his playing field," Tom argued.

"Reddington said it was his past," Ressler muttered half-heartedly, wishing he could convince Tom to drop the matter. "He's just a fixer."

"Just a—you're still on his turf!" Tom exclaimed. Why was he the only one who got this? "Remember how easily your government was going to cut you loose? You guys are small. It's nothing for him to take you all apart."

Tom glared, frustrated that he was the only one to take Prescott seriously. If Prescott wasn't such a credible threat, he'd actually be grateful for the convenient cover while he investigated why the bones were so important. After the destruction his parents caused in their war with one another he didn't want to follow Kaplan's last wishes without knowing what he was giving Liz—now that he knew Red was her father.

"Can I point out Reddington wants to hire him? And Hitchen used him—who was Cabal," Tom reminded Ressler. "He can't be your run-of-the-mill fixer."

Doubt crept back in as Ressler listened to what Tom was saying. Remembering again how Cooper and Reddington couldn't protect the task force until they resorted to blackmailing the fixer. Eliminating their problem by blackmailing Hitchen to derail the grand jury.

Like a fixer.

"Reddington is out of Prescott's league. Unless you're planning to do things Reddington's way, Prescott is out of _yours_."

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~ 


	8. Chapter 8

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

 _ **~Chapter Eight~**_

Opened folders took over Ressler's desk as he swiftly went through familiar evidence and notes. Slowing down when a piece of old information caught his new eyes, or studying new additions from agents with clearance to access the old Reddington files.

Piecing together the connections.

The last conversation with Tom haunting him. Ressler thought he could end this circle of blackmail but now he wasn't sure.

"Is something the matter?" Samar asked, leaning outside the doorway where she was chatting with Liz. Taking a short break as they waited for Aram to finish collecting the data they requested. Ressler had arrived early to finish yesterday's leftover work and they came in to find itemized cases already waiting on their desks. Leaving them now with nothing to do but wait until Ressler finished collating the old Reddington cases. They had offered to help but Ressler insisted on doing it himself since he had been on the old task force.

"I've been going over the case that got Sullivan killed," Ressler responded, without looking away from the reports in front of him. The files on three of the agents had been updated in the intervening years. And with new knowledge that came with working on the current task force and a higher security clearance, Ressler saw the influence of activities he couldn't before. "There's something weird about it."

"Who's Sullivan?" Samar asked.

"She was an agent I worked with when one of my investigations overlapped. I was closing in on an independent Japanese contraband smuggling ring that encroached on a Yakuza activity she was tracking."

"And what's weird?" Liz asked, curious. It sounded like Ressler discovered something that was unrelated to Reddington while going through everything that had to do with her father.

"What's weird is that she was Narcotics. Damn good at it too. I didn't think much of it at the time. Until today, I find out the agent I was expecting to lead the investigation team had been working undercover on sensitive narcotic operations."

Without getting up, Ressler scooted a few inches, holding up a different folder opened to Thomson Ishihara's personal history for Keen.

"I worked with Ishihara before. Asia's criminal organizations were his specialty. He's done seminars at the Academy. And because he talked about it, I know he had a drinking problem as a result of the job."

"Not someone who should be in narcotics," Liz commented, flipping through Ishihara's file and confirming her belief.

"Yeah. And get this. Laurel Hitchen was the one who recommended Ishihara."

"You think it was a deliberate swap?" Samar straightened up. She's familiar with the tactic of placing the wrong person on an operation as an act of sabotage. "What happened to them?"

"They both died two, three years later. All the cases and teams fell apart after," Ressler answered as he turned away. He couldn't find any concrete reasons for why everything fell apart. Just that it did.

"It's Hitchen. That can't be a coincidence," Samar said.

"Tell me about it." Ressler picked up another folder and slid back toward his partners. "Here's another one with Hitchen's recommendation."

"Evelyn Aidas?" Liz frowned, giving Ishihara's folder back to Ressler. "I've heard of her. She was a star agent busting organized child trafficking. Committed suicide."

"Aidas was in white collar when I first met her."

At that Liz quickly flipped to the back pages.

"She has two kids," Liz said in subdued pity as she read Aidas' bio. "Unless I was already in the department, I could never work in child sex crimes after having Agnes. I would lose my mind."

Liz started turning the pages, scanning the documents until one stopped her. "There's a transfer request. With recommendation by Laurel Hitchen."

"If I didn't know better, it just looks to me like a protective mother trying to make the world a safer place for her children. Picking a battle that was probably her worst fear," Ressler admitted.

"I would never request such a transfer myself if I had kids," Samar said, reading over Liz's arm.

"Cause of death was a cocktail of painkillers, anxiety and sleep meds," Liz read as she turned more pages.

"It's possible she was a suicide victim?" Samar looked over the autopsy notes with Liz.

"Maybe," Ressler muttered under his breath. "We know Hitchen was a murderer. Not a stretch to think it was an assassination."

"We're talking about Hitchen? Assassination? Is Prescott back?"

At the mention of the fixer's name Ressler schooled his expression and then glanced over his shoulder.

"Ressler found something connecting Hitchen." Liz looked at Aram stopping between her and Samar. "Aram. Are you still worried about him?"

"Not really. I asked Mr. Reddington about him and he said we didn't have to worry," Aram admitted. "But Prescott got us thinking."

"Us?" Liz raised an eyebrow at Samar.

"Aram and I have been talking. About Kaplan," Samar shared. "After everything she did? She jumps off the bridge?" Samar didn't like it. When she went over the case— approaching it as a Mossad agent—Kaplan's crusade echoed a familiarity that put her on alert. Experience told her that Kaplan's death wouldn't be the end of things. Liz was still alive and Samar believed Reddington's cleaner was prepared to reach beyond the grave to protect Liz.

"So we've been thinking … what if she had a backup plan?" Aram asked.

Ressler swiveled his chair around to fully face his teammates. Something in his gut twisted in shame. Aram reminding him of something he had only realized too late—long after he called Prescott to take care of Hitchen's body.

"I mean, Kaplan got to me by using Janet. How would she know unless she had us under surveillance?" Aram continued, tensing up in agitation. "What if there's still a plan for Samar and Director Cooper?"

"Kaplan knew everything that Reddington knows about us." Samar hadn't forgotten what Kaplan said to her over the video conference and she had reached out to Levi and her old contacts later. The idea of her enemies with knowledge of the task force's existence was something she had to consider. "She'd have to go through Mossad to find someone with a grudge against me. Could she do that without Reddington?"

"I don't know," Liz admitted. She couldn't be sure. It seemed insane for Kate to go that far when she already had cut Reddington off from his overseas connections.

"And who knows about Director Cooper," Aram said. The possibilities running through his mind. He and Samar had been brainstorming anything they could do.

"I don't think Kate would set anyone after us that would put me and Agnes at risk," Liz said. Especially Agnes.

"She was going to have you arrested," Ressler pointed out, pushing his personal turmoil away. "And she almost succeeded."

Liz paused. Her partner had a point. She had to remember Kate was still a criminal, and there was a criminal psychology at work that made everything she did make sense. Functioning through constant head pain wouldn't have helped.

"We, ah, talked about that too," Aram offered up.

"It's possible she had another plan ready if you were arrested," Samar said. "We know she had people."

Tendrils of guilt resurfaced again. Liz didn't have a response to master criminals letting nothing stand in their way to protect her. Seeing Ressler stare blankly at his shoes lost in thought reminded her how crazy and abnormal things were. Maybe Tom had the right idea after all and she made a mental note to ask Tom if he was willing to share his parentage with Samar. Liz wasn't discounting the possibility of Halcyon's enemies coming after her family.

Samar caught sight of a courier approaching and stepped away from the entrance. Aram moved aside with a mumbled apology and Ressler pulled away from his thoughts.

The unsolved Heinrich Schreiber murder that Ressler once investigated had finally arrived.

The courier held up a clipboard for Ressler and nodded his thanks when Liz took the two boxes from him, setting them on her empty desk.

Ressler opened the top cardboard box once the courier left with his signature.

The moment he had his hands around the worn folders he knew something was wrong. Ressler frowned and opened the bottom box.

"Ressler?" Samar asked.

"This can't be right." Ressler hauled all the folders and documents out. Riffling through them all with a familiarity that wasn't matched by what was there. "I worked on this. Some of the files are missing." Some of _his_ notes were missing.

"LIV-54," Liz said to herself out loud, taking a closer look at the box label. "Were you the last agent?"

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

Going through contacts to track down old colleagues from Organized Crime eventually yielded nothing. When new leads to Reddington took priority, Ressler had to hand the Schreiber case off. He knew who took over the case after him, and speaking to old friends revealed the case was shelved after all leads dried up. As far as they knew, nothing in the case was debunked and filed separately.

The passenger door opened and Ressler silently berated himself for failing to see Prescott approach from the curbside—despite the fact he had been watching his surroundings. Mystified as a bundle of long-stemmed, blue roses took over his dashboard.

"Got a girlfriend you're trying to impress?" Ressler eyed the large dyed blooms wrapped in dark paper that he couldn't tell was either burgundy or brown in the evening light; swirled gold breaking up the solid color. A strong blue, the color was almost too bright and just a shade away from tackiness in his opinion. The artificial rose scent was definitely too much and tickled his nose.

"Finally got to those agents," Prescott said instead.

"How would you know?" Ressler asked, already irritated.

"I know," Prescott mocked. He could be nicer, but he needed Ressler to move on so he could fix this mess. "Also you're unhappy."

"Were they dirty?" Ressler reined in the building anger at Prescott's abrasiveness.

"Does it matter? Hitchen did what she did."

"Why? Did they find something on her?"

"Does it really matter?" Prescott repeated. "Those agents died because she intentionally put them there. Now for your next assignment."

"No."

"No?"

"I'm not doing it."

"What? You want to go jail because of someone like her? You're going to let all the good you've done—good you'll do—wiped away by one accident with a murderer? Really?" Prescott scowled at Ressler's course of action. "You know what? Sleep on it. I'll come back tomorrow when you're ready to listen to sense."

All the doors simultaneously locked in a faint thud when Ressler hit the master-lock button as Prescott reached for the car handle.

"Why can't you just tell me what I'm doing? You said you weren't playing Reddington's game," Ressler said once Prescott turned back to face him—incredulousness over his face, easing the temper he was keeping in check. Ressler had observed Reddington's version of verbal aggressiveness enough times that encountering anything less was paltry theatrics.

But he's grown to personally dislike Prescott's aggressive performance.

"I'm not. But you're a terrible liar," Prescott said gently. "So just do what I say."

"So you're tricking me into helping myself?" Ressler said after a split second, Prescott's abrupt mood changes still took him off balance. It was almost calming how Prescott sounded contemplative.

And it sickened him because he doubted it was real.

"She was a user, you know. She would have used you up," Prescott said after a momentary silence. After getting to know Ressler better, he knew exactly what Hitchen would have done if she had gotten the agent away from Reddington. "You'd be doing good. A hero. Probably everything legal to twist the knife. And then you'd be dead. She had access to your psych file, too."

Prescott sounded sincere and Ressler wondered if the fixer truly meant to help him. An idea he would immediately dismissed if it weren't for Reddington's opinion of the man.

Or maybe all this was a con. Ressler hadn't forgotten Tom's warnings.

The fates of those four agents clung to Ressler's mind. And the fact that Ishihara's and Sullivan's cases and teams fell apart after their deaths. Aidas' apparent suicide. And everything about Schreiber's murder was still unsolved. Maybe it was a heavy conscience that got them killed. The weight of guilt affecting their job performance—where a mistake could mean life or death.

"Thought you didn't want some corrupt official blackmailing your team," Prescott interrupted, seeing Ressler's doubts. "The way you and Reddington did. That's why you're doing this, isn't it? Because they're not going to let you go to jail without a fight."

The voice was soft, no hint of a threat—and Ressler's skin crawled at how easily Prescott had him made.

And Ressler thought the unlocking thud of the car doors felt heavy and loud in the silence of the car.

"You can go now," Ressler said, turning away from Prescott. A quiet flare of anger at feeling uncomfortable under Prescott's gaze.

"… you're actually going to do it."

"Do what?" Ressler said.

"Confess."

Ressler was silent.

"Keep me out of it," Prescott said detachedly, keeping annoyed disbelief at bay.

"Oh, worried about yourself again, huh?" Ressler said, not keeping the contempt out of his voice.

"So? Reddington blackmailed me so you can blackmail Hitchen. You blackmailed me, getting blackmailed yourself. Now you're worried someone will use you to blackmail your task force," Prescott said, his voice turning increasingly dark. "Or maybe, they'll use _me_ to bury and clean up your task force's mess—saving their political face."

"You're going to jail for Hitchen or for your team. So which is it? Your conscience or fear?" Prescott stared hard at Ressler. "Why did you call me and not your boss? Or even Reddington?"

Ressler visibly flinched as Prescott forced him to return to a frustration that had turned to gnawing resentment that was becoming harder to ignore after Kaplan.

"You think anyone cares you're tired of trading? Trades you think never should have been traded in the first place?" Prescott answered for him. "You're just a bumbling asset that Reddington is using to maintain the cover of credibility. Your teammates are handling legal and ethical questionableness better than you. Because they already have the background for it. In case you haven't realized it already—Reddington needs operatives like that to keep your task force running smoothly. Why should you go to jail for trying to uphold the law to the best of your ability—what you trained for and what you believed in—when your government struck a deal with Reddington?"

Like a light switch flicked on, Tom's warnings were thrown in sharp relief—outweighing Reddington's reassurances. That was a tone Ressler hadn't heard from Prescott before and a muscle in his jaw twitched at Prescott's tactic. He didn't fall for that in high school, during training, at dating, or with perps—he sure as hell wasn't going to fall for it now.

Prescott turned away and waved a hand at Ressler dismissively.

"You're still going to confess."

"Yeah. And you can't stop me," Ressler said heatedly, without the shakiness he was feeling.

Prescott turned back, locking eyes with Ressler—the agent waiting for his next strike.

"No. But you're going to keep me out of it. Or I get a deal. You want to make me your task force's problem? I quit, remember? You're not using me to even the scales you got in your head just to make yourself feel better. Unless you want to explain your task force's connection to me and finally give a corrupt official something to hold over them." Prescott yanked opened the door, indulging in resentment to how much Ressler was costing him. "You were trying so hard to avoid that."

"Hey!" Ressler motioned to bouquet, unable to say anything but unwilling to let Prescott have that parting shot.

Prescott stopped, one foot out the door.

"You know there's no such thing as a natural blue rose?"

"Yeah. So?"

"Keep them."

Ressler kept his eyes on Prescott as he disappeared up the street and between buildings. Grabbing the roses, he poked at the cup shaped blooms, distantly counted eleven heads. Anything to take his mind off what he was going to do. Awkwardly maneuvering the long stems. Rubbed his nose at the rosy smell—up close the chemical imitation stung his eyes—and dropped them on the passenger floor.

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~


	9. Chapter 9

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

 _ **~Chapter Nine~**_

It had all been unreal and Ressler closed his eyes to the gray concrete wall ahead, replaying today's events in his mind.

From the moment sitting down in Cooper's office. To Cooper accepting his request to keep Reddington out of it as long as they could. Ressler didn't want his brand of help—there been enough of that.

He was ending this circle of blackmail.

Ressler still remembered how he held onto that thought as they went to see Cynthia Panabaker. Comforting himself that it was going to be all over.

 _I killed Laurel Hitchen._

He said those four words.

And he's been walking in a world that pulled away from him ever since. The out of body sensation of being unreal … like a sleepwalker who didn't understand he was watching himself sleepwalk and waiting for the gusts of wind rebounding against the walls to carry him away and maybe … he would wake up.

Once the four words left his mouth Panabaker let loose her anger and Cooper sent him to wait outside her office as she began to tear into him with scathing admonishment shot with idioms he didn't understand.

The sun would be setting soon and Ressler took a deep breath of cold air. Clouds were gathering and he can smell the rain waiting to fall, the moisture sharpening the clay and iron scent of cement and metal. Pulling himself back.

He needed to keep it together.

Slowly breathing out—dark red roses and blue glass filled his mental vision—smelling flowers that weren't there.

Ressler didn't know it at the time, but they had passed Hitchen's successor striding angrily on her way out of Panabaker's office. Entering a room left with tension. Huge, red roses in the fleur-de-lis shaped vase sitting on the side of Panabaker's desk and Ressler immediately recognized there were eleven flower heads.

 _"It's hard sometimes," Cooper said to him—after he handed over his badge and gun, the last thing he did before he walked out the Post Office, "living up to the duty—to the justice and the law—that we've sworn ourselves to. We want to believe we always can. But we sometimes fall short, and find ourselves at loss when we can't match what we believed ourselves to be."_

The barest sound of grit crushed underfoot and Ressler reflexively opened his eyes in defense of possible danger.

"What would have happened if I hadn't confessed?" Ressler asked Prescott—a vague form in his peripheral vision.

"Nothing. Except for what your conscience does to you. It didn't matter. You were in the clear."

The voice was matter-of-fact. Neutral and steady.

"You were setting me up," Ressler said.

When they returned Cooper had the others gathered all the files he had requested—Panabaker demanded it all returned—and announced that he was suspended for running a secret investigation. There had been varying degrees of surprise—they didn't think he had it in him to be sneaky—much less enough to get pass their attention.

Prescott didn't answer and it sparked a flare of anger in Ressler. Quietly, he breathed in and out. Refusing to let the anger grow. Staying relaxed. Keeping it together. Not letting go either.

The cement ground was mostly swept clean of gravel. Metal folding chairs and crates acting as make-shift seats lined the outside walls of the building wings. Windows and ceilings were empty and roofless. Ressler turned his attention back to the orange pylons and ropes left to one side, already determined someone in the construction crew was holding a fight club when he arrived at the center of the development site.

"You said you weren't playing Reddington's game," Ressler said without turning to face Prescott.

There was no anger in Cooper's voice when he asked for the truth once they were back upstairs and alone in his office. Still dazed and knowing Cooper could tell him what had happened, Ressler had spilled everything about his involvement with Prescott.

"I wasn't. You made your own choices and I respected your wishes. By that—I mean your conscience. Even when you didn't follow my orders. If you had done the next assignment, you would have kept your badge. And maybe even your credibility."

An unconscious twitch in his shoulders that Ressler couldn't stop at the mention of his badge and ruined reputation. "My conscience," Ressler said instead, aware of the emptiness inside his suit jacket where his badge should be.

"No one died. Threatened. Bribed. Or blackmailed."

After Ressler finished, Cooper had sighed—understanding what Prescott had done all over his face. Cooper told him the woman they had pass was the new National Security Advisor. There was an internal jurisdictional scuffle over classified matters involving national security that could never go public—not if they could help it. Ressler had jeopardized their investigation when he took those cases. It had been too much of a coincidence that those files were out the moment the new NSA needed them—and she placed Ressler under suspicion as Hitchen's accomplice when he hid the files in the mass request.

Cooper told him Panabaker had defended his actions to the new advisor; well aware that Reddington's involvement meant the task force's cases would occasionally overlap with classified matters. She was now suspicious of the new advisor for having prior knowledge of those cases. When he came to confess it seemed to her that Ressler was another one of Hitchen's victims. Panabaker thought she finally got the proof she needed on a silver platter in order to go after some of Hitchen's operations. Until he lied to hide Prescott's involvement.

 _"He played you," Cooper said. "He knew your confession wouldn't hold up under examination. You were caught off guard and suspicious when you saw the flowers. You had Prescott on your mind, trying to figure out how he was involved. Your reputation as a determined agent preceded you. When you lied, she assumed you launched your own rogue investigation after Hitchen's death. Starting with the largest leads that were available to you: the old Reddington cases. She read your behavior as subterfuge in an attempt to open an official investigation into Hitchen's past operations. To reopen the inquiry into Reven's disappearance."_

"The evidence…." Ressler said, remembering how he tried to keep his agitation under control—how Panabaker listened to him with restrained incredulity—to slow anger—as he answered her questions. Explained how he knew Hitchen murdered Reven Wright and had been trying to prove it these past months. How Hitchen grabbed him and how he reacted.

 _"Forensics can place you on the couch. The couch you said you cleaned to remove evidence of your presence. And your DNA was found on the hand she used to grab you."_

"… you didn't hide it. You didn't have anything—you didn't _do_ anything," Ressler said.

"Of course not. I didn't want you. And I didn't want to be Reddington's target. As far as I'm concern, you're his problem that became mine. At any point if you admitted my involvement you would discredit your confession."

 _"Because it truly appeared she had an accident," Cooper answered to Ressler's disbelieving question as to why he was still cleared as a suspect. "They had the best forensic team investigating and they declared her death an accident. Agents questioning the last people who saw her all said she'd been in a rage all day over incompetent handling of classified security details and locking down leaks. And there were people who knew she had it out for you. Knew she was passing along your badge in a power-play. No one was surprised her heels killed her. And now your knowledge of Reven's murder proves Hitchen's enmity for you."_

"You got to the people," Ressler said.

"They knew Hitchen. They don't want to believe you."

"And if I had done your next assignment?" Ressler asked.

"If you had gone to interview the people I was planning on making you search for you might have changed your mind about confessing. And Cynthia Panabaker would notice and have Director Cooper stop you on the grounds of interfering with national security."

Ressler stiffened at the mention of Cooper and shifted to see Prescott standing in the doorway. Distantly deducing Prescott had taken shortcuts by going through the doorless entrances of the incomplete buildings.

"Harold Cooper, Aram Mojtabai, Samar Navabi. Elizabeth Keen … Masha Rostova," Prescott listed off calmly. Then shrugged. "Tom Keen." And hadn't finding one of the Major's operatives been a surprise.

"If you still confessed," Prescott continued on, ignoring Ressler's trepidation, "it'll look like you were deliberately derailing their investigation in order to claim it as your own and to make it official. An obsessed agent. Fixated on that one case."

"Either way. It won't matter." Prescott studied Ressler—disappointment and the loss of faith in the system he served, mingled with relief at falling through the cracks in the same system. "The protection of the nation or the hoarding selfish interests won't allow your confession."

At that Ressler glanced away from Prescott; reminded of the task force's work with Reddington. Still struggling with acceptance.

"You know what your problem is? You still think like a local cop. You're a fed. You have a bigger field. And you're working with Reddington," Prescott said, seeing Ressler refrain from reacting, but he had his attention. "That's a much bigger playing field than he's letting you know."

Prescott continued on. "She was the National Security Advisor. There are bigger operations tied to Hitchen you aren't seeing. You got away. Hitchen's victims—the ones still living—take priority. And there are people who are looking for them."

Ressler regarded Prescott, unsure what to make of the comfort he was extending. Justice had gaps when the scale shifted size—he knew that. Justice wasn't always fair and it sometimes had to wait. He fought against those gaps all the same.

Understanding broke through, tipping Ressler into cold anger.

 _"Based on their current investigation, Panabaker was already looking at Hitchen's involvement in shutting down the inquiry into Reven's disappearance. She believed you when you said Hitchen killed her. But because of Hitchen's activities during that time period, charging Hitchen will be difficult even after her death. It would invite reviews to operations she made then. Hitchen may never be officially charged, but they know."_

"You're the reason the inquiry to Reven Wright's disappearance was shut down," Ressler accused.

In almost lazy strides Prescott approached—

—and Ressler realized something else.

He had confessed and his confession was rejected.

Prescott lost his hold over him.

The stress of being blackmailed; the shame, the fear—the intrusion to his home … and _all the goddamn manipulation_ —

Ressler swung a fist aimed directly at Prescott's face.

The next thing he knew he was falling face forward to the floor and pain was shooting up his shin.

Grimacing, Ressler kicked at Prescott's feet—and missed.

Prescott had been there at the beginning, Ressler thought as he got up.

Another swing. Another deflection that nearly drove him to the ground.

Before he knew the man existed Prescott was there and Ressler allowed the flowing rage carry his momentum, knocking Prescott to the ground in a tackle. Almost choking as Prescott braced his arm against his throat, rearing him back far enough to kick him off.

Ressler's hand shot out to twist Prescott's arm by the wrist in one smooth, practiced motion.

The barrel of his off-duty gun digging into Prescott's arm stopped further movements and Ressler used his weight to shove Prescott back down.

A dirty move, but Ressler didn't care.

"Nothing to say?" Ressler pressed his knee into Prescott's back.

"What's the matter? Mad you lost your leverage?" Ressler mocked, a little unnerved at Prescott's silence.

Seconds trickled by before Prescott answered.

"It was never about leverage."

"… what?"

"It was about proof."

"Proof?"

"You're my liability. And the two of you already blackmailed me. What's Reddington suppose to think after he finds out you called me? How do you think he'll react—knowing what I'm capable of?"

By murder, Ressler didn't say—thinking of the eighty-six bodies. Of all the deaths along the way.

"All this—sharing information—helping me—it was to give up your leverage," Ressler realized out loud, "you needed to have proof you weren't going to harm me."

"Reddington knows he's too high of a target—but you? I can get you," Prescott said, carefully tilting his head to look at Ressler from the edge of his vision.

"You hadn't always planned to help me," Ressler said, thinking back to that day in the garden. "What changed?"

"… I misjudged you based on your association with Reddington," Prescott admitted. "You were a liability for him, too. I thought I'd bury your problem, keep you occupied until Reddington decided to cut ties and wash his hands of you. But as I got to know you better and learned about your task force, I realized he wouldn't."

"And the body?" Ressler asked, not forgetting about the corpse Prescott forced him to transport as additional insurance to hold over him.

"Returning evidence to the scene of the crime. Catching the murderers. He and the girlfriend are being convicted," Prescott answered. "You weren't wrong—making you complicit made you a liability."

One other question remained … he couldn't understand why Prescott had shared it when it seemed unnecessary in his scheme—achieving the same results. In fact, it would have decreased the margin of errors in his plan.

"The emotional manipulation. Why tell me? And don't say you weren't playing Reddington's game because that's not it." Ressler glared down at Prescott. The mental manipulation he would eventually notice, but if Prescott hadn't told him about the emotional disruptions he would never have known.

Prescott hesitated. Ressler frowned and increased his pressure on Prescott's wrist.

"So you wouldn't spiral," Prescott said, sighing. He was still displeased about revealing those set of skills upfront. Especially that one. Most of his clients didn't know—like they didn't know he hid their evidence. And given the choice, they didn't want to know what he was doing to fix their problem—or why he was so effective at calming their emotional state. They just wanted the job done.

"What?" Ressler wrinkled his brow in confusion.

"Accepting Reddington's manipulation on a regular basis—and then Krilov? You'd begin to crack once you understood what I did to you at the end—and you would piece it all together in the end," Prescott said tiredly. The one side of this mess that made clearing Ressler's dilemma such damn delicate edge work. "It would wear you down in replacement. Might as well not bother doing things your way to clear your conscience."

Unfit for duty. If it didn't get him killed first.

That was what Prescott was saying, Ressler realized. He would have gotten what he wanted. But he'd start to unravel.

Ressler stared down at Prescott in disbelief—the chill of almost coming undone tempered by his shock at the attention to consequences.

"Are you going to take me in?" Prescott asked, interrupting Ressler's thoughts before he started dwelling.

 _"Let it go," Cooper had told him. "It's out of your hands now."_

Ressler reflexively tightened his hold on Prescott's wrist … then stepped away.

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

Poor agent, Prescott thought as he strolled through the alley behind the the construction site. He removed Ressler's current turmoil, but he expected the task force's deal with Reddington to start weighing Ressler down again.

The courtesy sound of a shoe scuffing dirt alerted him before someone stepped out ahead around the corner wall.

Not Reddington.

Reddington's bodyguard.

An olive branch from the crime lord.

"You cut him loose."

"I'm sure Reddington is examining all the holes I made in the process," Prescott said tersely, knowing he made waves that Reddington would notice as he used safeguards and unearthed the insurances he had on Hitchen. "You've been watching."

"It has been interesting," Dembe commented, trying to read Prescott in light of his actions with Ressler. There had been much clutter hiding the information Raymond wanted and Ressler becoming trapped within Prescott's territory had never been Raymond's intention.

A complicated situation that Raymond saw would do ill to Agent Ressler. One that killing Prescott would not solve—an action Raymond was reluctant to take. Allowing Prescott to entangle Ressler into silence and then negotiating without Agent Ressler's knowledge seemed the best option.

So they waited to intervene. Piecing together the activity Prescott created to cover his tracks, collecting lead in the white noise along the way.

Until Dembe saw the hidden picture that Prescott was driving Ressler towards.

"You didn't damage him," Dembe said, concluding Ressler knew about the manipulation as he observed the agent leaving. They had expected Ressler to come out of this wounded.

"I'm a professional. I don't leave behind a mess," Prescott said simply, studying the impassively calm bodyguard once more.

The man was dangerous. He knew that.

But he wasn't picking up a single warning note off of him.

Like that day when he first met the man—nothing.

Being mistaken about Ressler was irritating.

But walking past Reddington's bodyguard without noticing—not even a single mental alarm that something was wrong?

Well, that was just embarrassing.

"Out of curiosity, when did Reddington realize I was still in contact with Ressler?" Prescott asked. Truly curious and assessing reactions from the bodyguard. He knew the bodyguard was someone important to Reddington. The already difficult to read man had wavered silently between behaving as a distant bodyguard and an equal partner to give Prescott as little as possible to interpret.

"When Agent Ressler encountered the drug shipment," Dembe answered in understanding. They both had immediately discern the difference in Ressler. Heard the subtle difference in Ressler's voice. "He appeared rested the next day. Well. More than he has been for some time."

"That won't last," Prescott said. So Ressler was poorly off as he thought.

"Mr. Reddington would like to enlist your services," Dembe said instead of agreeing, not believing Prescott would accept. It was unfortunate. Ressler could use the help. Though he still disapproved of using Ressler as an intermediary without a complete explanation. He should be told Prescott would be constructing safety nets. "You would also resume having Ressler as a client."

"Declined. I'm retired."

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	10. Chapter 10

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 _ **~Chapter Ten~**_

Head falling back onto the neck pillow that was still in its clear plastic bag, Prescott shut his eyes to the warehouse ceiling. Hearing the thick plastic creak beneath him as he settled into the king sized mattress. Vacuumed-sealed, but still having enough give to be supportively comfortable.

He was going to miss this place.

The warehouse was a storage space for imported mattresses and related sundries. The business belonged to his team of cleaners and forensic entomologist—their service he had just terminated with severance instructions.

The door opened quietly and soft footsteps that made no effort to hide itself on the concrete floor stopped him from dozing off. Prescott listened to the footsteps stop and start, coming towards his direction. Halted where he rested.

"Now? I was about to take a nap," Prescott complained without opening his eyes.

"But then I wouldn't have perfect timing."

Solomon grinned, placing a hand against the tower of mattress that was just high enough to keep Prescott out of sight, and gave it a hard shove.

Opening his eyes in resignation, Prescott got up, and tossed the pillow down to the floor. Climbing down using the junction formed by the stacked mattresses and the rough cinderblock wall.

"Took you long enough to find me," Prescott said, tossing the pillow back to its crate. He could have used Solomon's intel in navigating his mess with Ressler.

Solomon's eyebrows rose hearing the crossness in Prescott's voice.

"Heard you're retiring. What happened with Hitchen that you had to kill her?"

"What makes you think I killed her?"

"Who else would leave her body to let us all know she's dead," Solomon said. "Anyone else would have scurried her corpse away, leaving us all wondering," he tilted his head, "—is she truly gone?"

"What do you need me for that you had to call on a debt?"

Solomon's smile widened, accepting the sidestepping, because the next thing he said was going to upset his ally.

"I want you to help Scottie. Howard framed her."

"That's what you want?!" Prescott was aghast. He knew Solomon had found employment at Halcyon. Working for Susan. But he hadn't expect loyalty coming out of it. To stick by her through her arrest.

The Hargraves' marriage had decayed and fallen apart. With the company and its operatives caught in the middle. Howard and Susan's war against each other over Halcyon Aegis resulted with one of them incarcerated.

Just like he told them. Years ago before he left.

It hadn't only been pride and self-preservation that he went to such lengths to resolve his situation with Ressler.

He didn't want the Hargraves to intercede if he actually had been arrested. And they would hear of it if he had been.

Sentimental loyalties were funny like that.

They were why he wanted Ressler to keep him off the task force's files.

Debts and favors were dangerous things and he'd rather avoid giving Reddington the means to make a deal with the Hargraves.

And now Solomon wanted him to help Susan.

His namesake. Victory snatched away from disastrous defeat when Susan suddenly pretended to be him and Howard swiftly reworking the mission details to maintain the charade. At the debrief, Howard had thought it hilarious that they succeeded by using a comedy of errors. And so the nickname stuck.

Prove her innocence, Prescott thought. Which ultimately meant reconciling the Hargraves' relationship, if not their marriage.

"I'm going to shoot you."

"No gun."

"I'll take yours."

"You owe me." Solomon smiled, showing teeth.

"I'm out of practice. I'll probably screw up."

"Still owe me!" Solomon chirped cheerfully.

"I walked away," Prescott protested half-heartedly.

"Not so far where you couldn't keep watch. You did jobs for Hitchen."

"It's good sense. And because I knew you would call on me one day."

"See? It all works out! Take a break from storing the problems of the rich and powerful. You're getting soft in all the poshness. Let's get you away from all the luxury," Solomon said, enjoying dragging Prescott back out. Besides. It was only fair. Solomon rather liked his current job.

"I like the luxury. It's simple. Uncomplicated." Delineated.

"C'mon, La Follia," Solomon said, grinning mischievously at the old appellation. "Doesn't the devil want to collect?"

The mischief didn't reach Solomon's eyes and Prescott studied the mercenary. There was a seriousness to the jocular attitude that he saw only during missions. But not quite. The nihilistic edge was missing.

"You've changed."

"It's been different. I was doing good for Scottie." Solomon's smile almost turned kind, even though cynicalness still touched it. He could almost believe nothing mattered wasn't true. "She's changed too."

"For now." Prescott sighed uselessly. Because they both knew he was never really going to turn down Solomon's request. He owed Solomon, after all. And Nez and Dumont were going to be furious when they find out. Especially Nez.

Solomon pulled out a small black box and a thumb drive, handing both to Prescott. "Howard paid some hired hands with this."

Prescott examined the light purple gemstone. Refrained from picking it up to study the multi-faceted cuts. Snapping the box shut, he tossed it back. He knew what it was, how much it was worth, and where Howard got it.

"You don't want it?" Solomon gave a look of exaggerated pain. "That's part of your funding."

"Too risky. I don't want to deal with future complications. I'm retiring."

"After all the trouble I went to helping you set up your fixer business." Solomon feigned hurt. Mostly feigned. He was still mighty proud of himself for coming up with the idea and naming the business. "What are you going to do next?"

Prescott could hear the gears already turning in Solomon's head. "I'm retiring-retiring."

"You're just going to disappear into a peaceful life. Really, now?" Solomon looked at Prescott skeptically.

"Yes," Prescott answered. Retirement was looking quite ideal right now. "You can do something else for me. Information—everything you know about Raymond Reddington and the task force he's working with." He uncovered so much unexpectedness during this job with Ressler and Solomon could give him a better picture of what he accidentally tripped into—and he wanted to know what he left his last client in.

It started slowly. A shaking of his shoulders. And Solomon laughed and laughed.

"You finally crossed paths!" Solomon said in between breaths, reveling in genuine glee. "You slipped up, didn't you? Didn't you?"

Solomon laughed some more. He could use the good cheer and he was going to take it for all its worth. Hiding from Nez while gathering intel to pass off to Prescott wasn't easy. He didn't want them to realize he was bringing Prescott back to help Scottie. "How many insurances and safeguards did you lose?"

"Anything else you want me to do?" Prescott said sourly, refusing to humor Solomon.

At that, Solomon looked sheepish.

"Nez is hunting me."

"… what did you do?"

"I killed one of her friends."

Prescott gave Solomon a withering look, not caring what the circumstances were. "You're on your own. Not helping."

Solomon raised his hands in acceptance.

"By the way," Solomon drawled slowly, amused at the familiar exasperated look Prescott was giving him. "Nez has a new brother."

"Yeah? Good for her," Prescott said, the rush of relief didn't hide his leeriness; waiting for the next surprise that Solomon was savoring to drop.

"Mm hmm." Solomon's smile was back.

"Just tell me already."

"It's Christopher Hargrave."

Prescott stared.

"Surprise! You were right. He's still alive!"

Prescott stared some more.

Shocked the Hargraves' stolen son had been found. Glad and relieved for the Hargraves. Then sinking certainty that the Hargraves had used their son against each other.

"Start talking. Tell me everything."

And Solomon talked. About Susan. How he was hired and the jobs he did. About Howard and the attempted assassination. About Reddington. The task force. Confirming what Prescott already put together. Shining more light on some. Sharing the name Dembe Zuma—the bodyguard. About Tom Keen being Christopher Hargrave—and Solomon patted Prescott's shoulder in sympathy as a horrified expression came over Prescott's face.

Reddington knew Tom Keen was Christopher Hargrave, Prescott realized as Solomon explained he thought Elizabeth Keen was Reddington's daughter because he was moving heaven-earth-hell for her.

And the Hargraves had a granddaughter.

Prescott's jaw clenched.

One way or another, Reddington would get him involved and he needed to make plans.

At least he didn't mind being around Ressler.

~^~v~^~v~^~v~^~

Ressler stared down at his phone as minutes trickled by.

Tapped the screen before it went dark each time the brightness dimmed.

Reddington was waiting for him today with Dembe not far behind as Ressler walked aimlessly through the park—trying to decide what to do for the next month.

Sullenly, he listened to Reddington. Covering remnants of embarrassed shame at using Reddington to coerce Prescott by asking how he knew. Annoyed when Reddington ignored his question.

Reddington encouraged Ressler to enjoy the cleared conscience. Other parties had a vested interest in solving Hitchen's crimes and Reven's death. Let his government have their cake and eat it too; Ressler would just get in the way.

Told him Panabaker would handle the investigation into Hitchen with care because it would impact some of the orders she made.

Including Keen's exoneration; Reddington didn't want Panabaker to follow too closely on that.

That stopped him.

The reminder of Keen framed as an assassin and his manhunt for her finally wiped the last traces of doubt.

And Ressler found himself agreeing with Reddington.

It was done. Time to move on.

But not forget.

Because Reddington told him it'll only be a matter of time before Prescott appeared back into their lives. And Reddington didn't think Prescott would refuse his offer for work when that time came.

The drive back to his apartment was a blur.

He couldn't get the thought of Prescott's return out of his head.

That one day, out of the blue, Prescott would be back. Probably on a job Reddington hired him for and he wasn't going tell the task force about. Blindsiding them again.

The idea of his team subjected to Prescott's manipulative talents while advancing Reddington's interests—that he might have to experience it again—burned him in low anger. Dealing with Reddington's manipulation was enough. They didn't need another one.

Prescott's alias stared up at him.

So Ressler thought about it.

Keen was pardoned. They didn't know how Reddington did it but they were grateful for it all the same.

Ressler didn't know how Prescott did what he did.

… but he was grateful. Despite everything … he was grateful.

… but he hated all the manipulation.

He glanced at the blue roses sitting in the middle of the table—rearranged and trimmed—some angled awkwardly in a large salsa jar he scrounged up from the kitchen. The fake rose smell had dissipated and the color wasn't gaudy in the light.

A clench in his chest that wouldn't let him pretend he wasn't gathering up courage.

And Ressler tapped the number.

"You're calling me."

An astonishment in Prescott's steady voice and Ressler quietly let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Why?"

Because Ressler didn't know how long he could do this anymore.

If he'd snap under the pressure of working with Reddington and facing whatever was coming for Keen.

Because he thought about Prescott's and Reddington's manipulations.

The two of them using him to deal with each other.

"Reddington said you'll be back. Said your past will throw you across our way," Ressler shared. "And he's sure he'll be able to hire you." The sound of waves carried over the phone. Prescott must be starting his retirement by the sea.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Because he was going to counter Reddington's manipulation of them this time and he wasn't going to let Prescott do it either.

"He told me you'd take his offer," Ressler said. "I was thinking, maybe we can just … talk?"

Silence on the other end.

"He wants me to be your handler—I think we can save ourselves the trouble of the two of you running schemes around one another and the task force if we just got to know each other better."

"… you do realize I essentially stalked and manipulated you, right?"

"Yeah, and I'm still pissed," Ressler growled. But he was sure the manipulations Prescott used on him was just a tool for the situation of keeping them both alive and not a character defect. Didn't believe Prescott was a vindictive bastard either. He wouldn't have called Prescott otherwise. "We can talk about you not doing that again."

"Keeping your enemies close, Ressler?"

Ressler hesitated.

Prescott had called him his retirement insurance once.

Ressler wanted his own.

For himself and for his team. When this was all over. After Reddington. After his blacklist.

And he wanted to do it differently.

"I don't want to be enemies."

More silence.

"… and I don't want to be your client. I'm not playing your game, Prescott."

The silence this time turned the gripping hold on his chest into hollowness. Ressler didn't have anything else to convince Prescott if he rejected his offer as absurd and simply took off with the new information.

"… give yourself at least a week. Do something while you're at it. Maybe find a hobby. You need something outside of work, Ressler. Then decide if you still want to call me."

The answer sounded like acceptance.

"Prescott. Are you giving me therapy advice?"

The call disconnected and Ressler released a shaky breath, releasing the tension that had gathered.

He was going to do this.

 _~Fin._

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AN: Finally, done! And Ressler is really, really hard to write! Prescott too, but that's because he had so little screen time until the Informant and I was extrapolating and making up reasons for the different character take in his season four appearance and early season five appearances. Actually thought the show changed actors and the second one was the one that caught my attention. Disappointed that he apparently learned to be a blackmailing extortionist from Reddington and Ressler and changed for the worse in the time skip. And then killed.

Sequel is unlikely because there's a one-off I'm thinking about and I may write. I like these two, and everyone else, more than I thought.

Or maybe I played myself when I started Devil's Trill. I certainly did when I shipped Ressler and Prescott because they are really difficult to write!

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Addendum: To be clear, what Prescott did—stalk and manipulate—is still messed up and Ressler knows it. (It would've been addressed in the sequel. Along with Prescott's criminal activities. Sorry if he now appears he's letting Prescott off lightly.) His actions, and Ressler's, are being condoned in-story because this is a story of criminal protagonists and set in the sliding morality of the task force. Especially in relation to Reddington, a mass murderer who also stalks and manipulates. Both their actions are motivated by the threat of Reddington. Mostly motivated in Ressler's case, because he's also hiding from shame and guilt. Using Reven made him ashamed and guilty, but I can't see him feeling guilt over the gender-flipped scene with Hitchen except over the coverup of his personal crime and justice evasion.

This isn't a 'wrongs make a right' or a redemption story. That's why there's no mention of the murderer of Ressler's father—and it would be a reductive red herring.

It's a 'trying to break away from the corrupt status quo' story. The status quo being Reddington, the use of corruption to solve corruption thereby creating more corruption, and ethic laundering.

Looking back now, I'm not sure with this Prescott. I considered tuning him down to bring him closer to Ressler, but went more in the direction of Red instead. I had his character match with the show's extravagance because I wanted him to echo it while still being more grounded. A milder repeat without being an antagonist, for Ressler to see and take different choices—creating a quieter undercurrent. And I wanted to see if a supportive counterbalancing would solve my case of The Blacklist's slipperiness. I think part of my problem is the task force doesn't feel like they have weight. Samar and Aram's relationship and Liz's conflict is helping though. (I thought Samar fit in context, but I'm dissatisfied with how I used her. And Cooper.)

I gave Prescott manipulation skills based on his first two appearance, thought it fitting, wanted Ressler to have some control and an unexpected compass. And because the show seemed to present Prescott as an antithesis to Ressler, while also being a dark mirror to what Ressler could be. Though due to that I don't think the canon Prescott was ever a skilled manipulator; he's just as heavy handed as Ressler. Like in The Informant.

Lastly, fun trivia: natural blue roses don't exist. Neither do red irises, but science is getting closer.

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End file.
